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MY LADY OF THE 
CHIMNEY-CORNER 



MY LADY OF THE 
CHIMNEY CORNER 



BY 

ALEXANDER IRVINE 

AUTHOR OF "from THE BOTTOM UP," ETC. 




NEW YORK 
THE CENTURY CO. 

1913 






Copyright, 19 13, by 
The Century Co. 



Published^ August, igij 






TO 
LADY GREGORY 

AND 

THE PLAYERS OF THE ABBEY THEATRE 
DUBLIN 



FOREWORD 

This book is the torn manu- 
script of the most beautiful life 
I ever knew. I have merely- 
pieced and patched it together, 
and have not even changed or 
disguised the names of the little 
group of neighbors who lived 
with us, at "the bottom of the 
world." A. I. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Love is Enough 3 

II The Wolf and the Carpenter ... 21 

III Rehearsing for the Show 38 

IV Sunday in Pogue's Entry 63 

V His Arm is not Shortened .... 85 

VI The Apotheosis of Hughie Thornton iio 
VII In the Glow of a Peat Fire . . . .133 

VIII The Wind Bloweth Where it Listeth 153 
IX " Beyond th' Me.^dows an' th' Clouds " . 171 
X The Empty Corner ig8 



MY LADY 
OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 



MY LADY OF 
THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 



A STORY OF LOVE AND POVERTY IN 
IRISH PEASANT LIFE 



CHAPTER I 
LOVE IS ENOUGH 

NNA'S purty, an' she's good 
as well as purty, but th' 
beauty an' goodness that 's 
hers is short lived, V m think- 
in'," said old Bridget 
McGrady to her neighbor Mrs. Tierney, as 
Mrs. Gilmore passed the door, leading her 
five-year-old girl, Anna, by the hand. The 
old women were sitting on the doorstep as 
the worshipers came down the lane from 
early mass on a summer morning. 

3 




MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Thrue for you, Bridget, for th' do say 
that th' Virgin takes all sich childther be- 
fore they 're ten." 

" Musha, but Mrs. Gilmore '11 take on 
terrible," continued Mrs. Tierney, '' but th' 
will of God must be done." 

Anna was dressed in a dainty pink dress, 
A wide blue ribbon kept her wealth of jet 
black hair in order as it hung down her back 
and the squeaking of her little shoes drew 
attention to the fact that they were new and 
in the fashion. 

'' It 's a mortal pity she 's a girl," said 
Bridget, " bekase she might hev been an al- 
thar boy before she goes." 

" Aye, but if she was a bhoy shure there 's 
no tellin' what divilmint she 'd get into ; so 
maybe it 's just as well." 

The Gilmores lived on a small farm near 
Crumlin in County Antrim. They were not 
considered " well to do," neither were they 
poor. They worked hard and by dint of 
economy managed to keep their children at 
4 



LOVE IS ENOUGH 



school. Anna was a favorite child. Her 
quiet demeanor and gentle disposition drew 
to her many considerations denied the rest 
of the family. She was a favorite in the 
community. By the old women she was 
considered " too good to live " ; she took 
*' kindly " to the house of God. Her 
teacher said, " Anna has a great head for 
learning." This expression, oft repeated, 
gave the Gilmores an ambition to prepare 
Anna for teaching. Despite the schedule 
arranged for her she was confirmed in the 
parish chapel at the age of ten. At fifteen 
she had exhausted the educational facilities 
of the community and set her heart on in- 
stitutions of higher learning in the larger 
cities. While her parents were figuring that 
way the boys of the parish were figuring in 
a different direction. Before Anna was 
seventeen there was scarcely a boy living 
within miles who had not at one time or an- 
other lingered around the gate of the Gil- 
more garden. Mrs. Gilmore watched Anna 
5 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

carefully. She warned her against the 
danger of an alliance with a boy of a lower 
station. The girl was devoted to the 
Church. She knew her Book of Devotions 
as few of the older people knew it, and be- 
fore she was twelve she had read the Lives 
of the Saints. None of these things made 
her an ascetic. She could laugh heartily 
and had a keen sense of humor. 

The old women revised their prophecies. 
They now spoke of her *' takin' th' veil." 
Some said she would make '' a gey good 
schoolmisthress," for she was fond of chil- 
dren. 

While waiting the completion of arrange- 
ments to continue her schooling, she helped 
her mother with the household work. She 
spent a good deal of her time, too, in help- 
ing the old and disabled of the village. She 
carried water to them from the village well 
and tidied up their cottages at least once a 
week. 

The village well was the point of depart- 
6 



LOVE IS ENOUGH 



ure in many a romance. There the boys 
and girls met several times a day. Many 
a boy's first act of chivalry was to take the 
girl's place under the hoop that kept the 
cans apart and carry home the supply of wa- 
ter. 

Half a century after the incident that 
played havoc with the dreams and visions of 
which she was the central figure, Anna said 
to me: 

" I was fillin' my cans at th' well. He 
was standin' there lukin' at me. 

" ' Wud ye mind/ says he, ' if I helped 
ye?' 

" ' Deed no, not at all,' says I. So he 
filled my cans an' then says he : " ' I would 
give you a nice wee cow if I cud carry thim 
home fur ye.' 

'' ' It's not home I'm goin',' says I, ' but to 
an' oul neighbor who can't carry it her- 
self.' 

'' ' So much th' betther fur me,' says he, 
an' off he walked between the cans. At 
7 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Mary McKinstry's doore that afthernoon 
we stood till the shadows began t' fall." 

From the accounts rendered, old Mary 
did not lack for water-carriers for months 
after that. One evening Mary made tea for 
the water-carriers and after tea she " tossed 
th' cups " for them. 

" Here 's two roads, dear/' she said to 
Anna, " an' wan day ye '11 haave t' choose 
betwixt thim. On wan road there 's love 
an' clane teeth (poverty), an' on t'other 
riches an' hell on earth." 

" What else do you see on the roads, 
Mary ? " Anna asked. 

" Plenty ov childther on th' road t' clane 
teeth, an' dogs an' cats on th' road t' good 
livin'." 

"What haave ye fur me, Mary?" Jamie 
Irvine, Anna's friend, asked. She took his 
cup, gave it a shake, looked wise and said: 
" Begorra, I see a big cup, me bhoy — it 's 
a cup o' grief I 'm thinkin' it is." 

" Oul Mary was jist bletherin'," he said, 
8 



LOVE IS ENOUGH 



as they walked down the road in the gloam- 
ing, hand in hand. 

" A cup of sorrow is n't so bad, Jamie, 
when there 's two to drink it," Anna said. 
He pressed her hand tighter and replied : 

"Aye, that's thrue, fur then it's only 
half a cup." 

Jamie was a shoemaker's apprentice. 
His parents were very poor. The struggle 
for existence left time for nothing else. 
As the children reached the age of eight 
or nine they entered the struggle. Jamie 
began when he was eight. He had never 
spent a day at school. His family con- 
sidered him fortunate, however, that he 
could be an apprentice. 

The cup that old Mary saw in the tea 
leaves seemed something more than " bleth- 
er " when it was noised abroad that Anna 
and Jamie were to be married. 

The Gilmores strenuously objected. 
They objected because they had another 
career mapped out for Anna. Jamie was 
9 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

illiterate, too, and she was well educated. 
He was a Protestant and she an ardent 
Catholic. Illiteracy was common enough 
and might be overlooked, but a mixed mar- 
riage was unthinkable. 

The Irvines, on the other hand, although 
very poor, could see nothing but disaster in 
marriage with a Catholic, even though she 
was as '^ pure and beautiful as the Virgin." 

'' It 's a shame an' a scandal," others said, 
*' that a young fella who can't read his own 
name shud marry sich a nice girl wi' sich 
larnin'." 

Jamie made some defense but it was n't 
convincing. 

" Does n't the Bible say maan an' wife 
are wan ? " he asked Mrs. Gilmore in dis- 
cussing the question with her. 

" Aye." 

" Well, when Anna an' me are wan won't 
she haave a thrade an' won't I haave an 
education? " 

'' That 's wan way ov lukin' at a vexed 
lo 



LOVE IS ENOUGH 



question, but you 're th' only wan that luks 
at it that way! " 

''There's two," Anna said. "That's 
how I see it." 

When Jamie became a journeyman shoe- 
maker, the priest was asked to perform the 
marriage ceremony. He refused and there 
was nothing left to do but get a man who 
would give love as big a place as religion, 
and they were married by the vicar of the 
parish church. 

Not in the memory of man in that com- 
munity had a wedding created so little in- 
terest in one way and so much in another. 
They were both '' turncoats," the people 
said, and they were shunned by both sides. 
So they drank their first big draft of the 
** cup o' grief " on their wedding-day. 

*' Sufferin' will be yer portion in this 
world," Anna's mother told her, '' an' in th' 
world t' come separation from yer maan." 

Anna kissed her mother and said: 

" I 've. made my choice, mother, I 've 
II 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

made it before God, and as for Jamie's 
welfare in the next world, I 'm sure that 
love like his would turn either Limbo, Pur- 
gatory or Hell into a very nice place to live 
in!" 

A few days after the wedding the young 
couple went out to the four cross-roads. 
Jamie stood his staff on end and said: 

*' Are ye ready, dear?" 

" Aye, I 'm ready, but don't tip it in the 
direction of your preference! " He was in- 
clined toward Dublin, she toward Belfast. 
They laughed. Jamie suddenly took his 
hand from the staff and it fell, neither to- 
ward Belfast nor Dublin, but toward the 
town of Antrim, and toward Antrim they 
set out on foot. It was a distance of less 
than ten miles, but it was the longest jour- 
ney she ever took — and the shortest, for 
she had all the world beside her, and so had 
Jamie. It was in June, and they had all 
the time there was. There was no hurry. 
They were as care-free as children and 

12 



LOVE IS ENOUGH 



utilized their freedom in full. Between 
Moira and Antrim they came to Willie 
Withero's stone pile. Willie was Antrim's 
most noted stone-breaker in those days. 
He was one of the town's news centers. 
At his stone-pile he got the news going and 
coming. He was a strange mixture of 
philosophy and cynicism. He had a rough 
exterior and spoke in short, curt, snappish 
sentences, but behind it all he had a big 
heart full of kindly human feeling. 

" Anthrim 's a purty good place fur pigs 
an' sich to live in," he told the travelers. 
" Ye see, pigs is naither Fenians nor 
Orangemen. I get along purty well m'self 
bekase I sit on both sides ov th' fence at th' 
same time." 

" How do you do it, Misther With- 
ero ? " Anna asked demurely. 

" Don't call me ' Misther,' " Willie said; 

'* only quality calls me ' Misther ' an' I don't 

like it — it does n't fit an honest stone 

breaker." The question was repeated and 

13 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

he said : " I wear a green ribbon on Path- 
rick's Day an' an orange cockade on th' 
Twelfth ov July, an' if th' ax m' why, I tell 
thim t' go t' h— 1 ! That 's Withero fur ye 
an' wan ov 'im is enough fur Anthrim, 
that 's why I niver married, an' that '11 save 
ye the throuble ov axin' me whither I 've got 
a wife or no ! '' 

"What church d'ye attend, Willie?" 
Jamie asked. 

"Church is it, ye 're axin' about? Luk 
here, me bhoy, step over th' stile." Willie 
led the way over into the field. 

" Step over here, me girl." Anna fol- 
lowed. A few yards from the hedge there 
was an ant-hill. 

" See thim ants?" 

" Aye." 

" Now if Withero thought thim ants 
hated aych other like th' men ov Anthrim 
d 'ye know what I 'd do? " 

"What?" 

" I 'd pour a kittle ov boilin' wather on 
14 



LOVE IS ENOUGH 



thim an' roast th' hides off ivery mother's 
son ov thim. Aye, that 's what I 'd do, 
shure as gun 's iron ! " 

" That would be a sure and speedy cure," 
Anna said, smiHng. 

"What's this world but an ant-hill? " he 
asked. " Jist a big ant-hill an' we 're ants 
begorra an' uncles, but instead ov workin' 
like these wee fellas do — help aych other 
an' shouldther aych other's burdens, an' 
build up th' town, an' forage fur fodder, 
begobs we cut aych other's throats over th' 
color ov ribbon or th' kind ov a church 
we attind ! Ugh, what balderdash ! " 

The stone-breaker dropped on his knees 
beside the ant-hill and eyed the manoeuver- 
ing of the ants. 

" Luk here ! " he said. 

They looked in the direction of his 
pointed finger and observed an ant drag- 
ging a dead fly over the hill. 

" Jist watch that wee fella ! " They 
watched. The ant had a big job, but it 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

pulled and pushed the big awkward car- 
cass over the side of the hill, A second ant 
came along, sized up the situation, and took 
a hand. "Ha, ha!" he chortled, "that's 
th' ticket, now kape yez eye on him ! " 

The ants dragged the fly over the top of 
the hill and stuffed it down a hole. 

" Now," said Withero, " if a fella in An- 
thrim wanted a han' th' other fellah wud 
say : * Where d 'ye hing yer hat up on Sun- 
day? ' or some other sich fool question! " 

" He wud that." 

" Now mind ye, I 'm not huffed at th* 
churches, aither Orange or Green, or th' 
praychers aither — tho 'pon m' sow! ivery 
time I luk at wan o' thim I think ov God 
as a first class journeyman tailor! But I 
get more good switherin' over an ant-hill 
than whin wan o' thim wee praychers thry 
t' make me feel as miserable as th' divil ! " 

" There 's somethin' in that," Jamie said. 

" Aye, ye kin bate a pair ov oul boots 
there is!" 

i6 



LOVE IS ENOUGH 



"What will th' ants do wi' th' fly?" 
Jamie asked. 

"Huh!" he grunted with an air of au- 
thority, " they '11 haave rump steaks fur tay 
and fly broth fur breakvist th' morra ! " 

" Th' don't need praychers down there, 
do th', Willie?" 

"Don't need thim up here!" he said. 
" They 're sign-boards t' point th' way that 
iverybody knows as well as th' nose on his 
face!" 

" Good-by," Anna said, as they prepared 
to leave. 

" Good-by, an' God save ye both kindly," 
were Willie's parting words. He adjusted 
the wire protectors to his eyes and the so- 
journers went on down the road. 

They found a mossy bank and unpacked 
their dinner. 

" Quare, isn't he?" Jamie said. 

" He has more sense than any of our 
people." 

" That 's no compliment t' Withero, 
17 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Anna, but I was jist thinkin' about 
our case ; we 've got t' decide somethin' 
an' we might as well decide it here as aany- 
where." 

" About religion, Jamie ? " 

" Aye." 

'' I 've decided." 

"When?" 

" At the ant-hill." 

"Ye cud n't be Withero?" 

" No, dear, Willie sees only half th' 
world. There 's love in it that 's bigger 
than color of ribbon or creed of church. 
We've proven that, Jamie, haven't we?" 

" But what haave ye decided? " 

" That love is bigger than religion. That 
two things are sure. One is love of God. 
He loves all His children and gets huffed at 
none. The other is that the love we have 
for each other is of the same warp and 
woof as His for us, and love is enough, 
Jamie." 

" Aye, love is shure enough an' enough 's 
i8 



LOVE IS ENOUGH 



as good as a faste, but what about childther 
if th' come, Anna? " 

" We don't cross a stile till we come to 
it, do we?" 

" That 's right, that 's right, acushla ; now 
we 're as rich as lords, are n't we, but I 'm 
th' richest, am n't I ? I 've got you an' 
you 've only got me." 

" I 've got book learning, but you 've got 
love and a trade, what more do I want? 
You 've got more love than any man that 
ever wooed a woman — so I 'm richer, 
am n't I?" 

" Oh, God," Jamie said, " but is n't this 
th' lovely world, eh, Anna?" 

Within a mile of Antrim they saw a cot- 
tage, perched on a high bluff by the road- 
side. It was reached by stone steps. They 
climbed the steps to ask for a drink of 
water. They were kindly received. The 
owner w^as a follower of Wesley and his 
conversation at the well was in sharp con-- 
trast to the philosophy at the stone-pile. 

19 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

The young journeyman and his wife were 
profoundly impressed with the place. The 
stone cottage was vine-clad. There were 
beautiful trees and a garden. The June 
flowers were in bloom and a cow grazed in 
the pasture near by. 

" Some day we '11 haave a home like 
this," Jamie said as they descended the 
steps. Anna named it " The Mount of 
Temptation," for it was the nearest she had 
ever been to the sin of envy. A one-armed 
Crimean pensioner named Steele occupied 
it during my youth. It could be seen from 
Pogue's entry and Anna used to point it 
out and tell the story of that memorable 
journey. In days when clouds were heavy 
and low and the gaunt wolf stood at the 
door she would say : " Do you mind the 
journey to Antrim, Jamie?" 

" Aye," he would say with a sigh, " an' 
we 've been in love ever since, have n't 
we, Anna? " 



20 




CHAPTER II 
THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 

OR a year after their arrival 
in Antrim they Hved in the 
home of the master-shoe- 
maker for whom Jamie 
worked as journeyman. It 
was a great hardship, for there was no pri- 
vacy and their daily walk and conversa- 
tion, in front of strangers, was of the '* yea, 
yea " and " nay, nay " order. In the sum- 
mer time they spent their Sundays on the 
banks of Lough Neagh, taking whatever 
food they needed and cooking it on the sand. 
They continued their courting in that way. 
They watched the water- fowl on the great 
wide marsh, they waded in the water and 
played as children play. In more serious 
moods she read to him Moore's poems and 
went over the later lessons of her school 



21 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

life. Even with but part of a day in each 
week together they were very happy. The 
world was full of sunshine for them then. 
There were no clouds, no regrets, no fears. 
It was a period — a brief period — that for 
the rest of their lives they looked back upon 
as a time when they really lived. I am not 
sure, but I am of the impression that the 
chief reason she could not be persuaded to 
visit the Lough in later life was because she 
wanted to remember it as she had seen it 
in that first year of their married life. 

Their first child was two years of age 
when the famine came — the famine that 
swept over Ireland like a plague, leaving in 
its wake over a million new-made graves. 
They had been in their ow^n house for over 
a year. It was scantily furnished, but it 
was home. As the ravages of the famine 
spread, nearly every family in the town 
mourned the absence of some member. 
Men and women met on the street one day 
were gone the next. Jamie put his bench 

22 



THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 

to one side and sought work at anything he 
could get to do. Prices ran up beyond the 
possibiHties of the poor. The potato crop 
only failed. The other crops were reaped 
and the proceeds sent to England as rent 
and interest, and the reapers having sent the 
last farthings lay down with their wives and 
children and died. Of the million who died 
four hundred thousand were able-bodied 
men. The wolf stood at every door. The 
carpenter alone was busy. Of course it 
w^as the poor who died — the poor only. In 
her three years of married life Anna real- 
ized in a measure that the future held little 
change for her or her husband, but she 
saw a ray of hope for the boy in the cradle. 
When the foodless days came and the child 
was not getting food enough to survive, she 
gave vent to her feelings of despair. Jamie 
did not quite understand when she spoke 
of the death of hope. 

'' Spake what 's in yer heart plainly, An- 
na!" he said plaintively. 

23 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Jamie, we must not blame each other 
for anything, but we must face the fact — 
we live at the bottom of the world where 
every hope has a headstone — a headstone 
that only waits for the name." 

" Aye, dear, God help us, I know, I know 
what ye mane." 

" Above and beyond us," she continued, 
"there is a world of nice things — books, 
furniture, pictures — a world where people 
and things can be kept clean, but it 's a world 
we could never reach. But I had hope " — 

She buried her face in her hands and was 
silent. 

'' Aye, aye, acushla, I know yer hope 's in 
the boy, but don't give up. We '11 fight it 
out together if th' worst comes to th' worst. 
The boy '11 live, shure he will ! " 

He could not bear the agony on her face. 
It distracted him. He went out and sought 
solitude on a pile of stones back of the 
house. There was no solitude there, nor 
could he have remained long if there had 
24 



THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 

been. He returned and drawing a stool 
up close beside her he sat down and put an 
arm tenderly over her shoulder. 

" Cheer up, wee girl," he said, '' our 
ship 's comin' in soon." 

'* If we can only save him!" she said, 
pointing to the cradle. 

" Well, we won't cry over spilt milk, dear 
— not at laste until it 's spilt." 

" Ah," she exclaimed, " I had such hopes 
for him!" 

" Aye, so haave I, but thin again I Ve 
thought t' myself, suppose th' wee fella did 
get t' be kind-a quality like, wud n't he be 
ashamed ov me an' you maybe, an' shure an 
ingrate that 's somethin' is worse than noth- 
in'!" 

*' A child born in pure love could n't be 
an ingrate, Jamie ; that is n't possible, dear." 

" Ah, who knows what a chile will be, 
Anna?" 

The child awoke and began to cry. It 
was a cry for food. There was nothing in 

25 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

the house; there had been nothing all that 
day. They looked at each other. Jamie 
turned away his face. He arose and left 
the house. He went aimlessly down the 
street wondering where he should try for 
something to eat for the child. There were 
several old friends whom he supposed were 
in the same predicament, but to whom he 
had not appealed. It was getting to be an 
old story. A score of as good children as 
his had been buried. Everybody was po- 
lite, full of sympathy, but the child was los- 
ing his vitality, so was the mother. Some- 
thing desperate must be done and done at 
once. For the third time he importuned 
a grocer at whose shop he had spent much 
money. The grocer was just putting up the 
window shutters for the night. 

'' n ye cud jist spare us a ha'p'orth ov 
milk to keep th' life in th' chile fur th' 
night? " he pleaded. 

" It wud n't be a thimbleful if I had it, 
Jamie, but I have n't — we haave childther 
26 



THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 

ov our own, ye know, an' life is life!" 

*' Aye, aye," he said, '' I know, I know," 
and shuffled out again. Back to the house 
he went. He lifted the latch gently and 
tiptoed in. Anna was rocking the child to 
sleep. He went softly to the table and 
took up a tin can and turned again toward 
the door. 

Anna divined his stealthy movement. 
She was beside him in an instant. 

"Where are you going, Jamie?" He 
hesitated. She forced an answer. 

*' Jamie," she said in a tone new to her, 
" there 's been nothing but truth and love 
between us; I must know." 

*' I 'm goin' out wi' that can to get some- 
thin' fur that chile, Anna, if I haave t' 
swing fur it. That 's what 's in my mind 
an' God help me! " 

" God help us both," she said. 

He moved toward the street. She 
planted herself between him and the door. 

" No, we must stand together. They '11 
27 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

put you in jail and then the child and I will 
die anyway. Let's wait another day!" 

They sat down together in the corner. 
It was dark now and they had no candle. 
The last handful of turf was on the fire. 
They watched the sparks play and the fitful 
spurts of flame light up for an instant at a 
time the darkened home. It was a picture 
of despair — the first of a long series that 
ran down the years with them. They sat 
in silence for a long time. Then they whis- 
pered to each other with many a break the 
words they had spoken in what now seemed 
to them the long ago. The fire died out. 
They retired, but not to sleep. They were 
too hungry. There was an insatiable gnaw- 
ing at their vitals that made sleep impossi- 
ble. It was like a cancer with excruciating 
pain added. Sheer exhaustion only, stilled 
the cries of the starving child. There were 
no more tears in their eyes, but anguish 
has by-valves more keen, poignant and sub- 
tle. 

28 



THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 

In agony they lay in silence and counted 
time by the repercussion of pain until the 
welcome dawn came with its new supply of 
hope. The scream of a frenzied mother 
who had lost a child in the night was the 
prelude to a tragic day. Anna dressed 
quickly and in a few minutes stood by the 
side of the woman. There was nothing to 
say. Nothing to do. It was her turn. It 
would be Anna's next. All over the town 
the specter hovered. Every day the reaper 
garnered a new harvest of human sheaves. 
Every day the wolf barked. Every day the 
carpenter came. 

When Anna returned Jamie had gone. 
She took her station by the child. Jamie 
took the tin can and went out along the 
Gray-stone road for about a mile and en- 
tered a pasture where three cows were graz- 
ing. He was weak and nervous. His eyes 
were bloodshot and his hands trembled. He 
had never milked a cow. He had no idea 
of the difificulty involved in catching a cow 
29 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

and milking her in a pasture. There was 
the milk and yonder his child, who without 
it would not survive the day. Desperation 
dominated and directed every movement. 

The cows walked away as he approached. 
He followed. He drove them into a corner 
of the field and managed to get his hand on 
one. He tried to pet her, but the jingling 
of the can frightened her and off they went 
— all of them — on a fast trot along the 
side of the field. He became cautious as 
he cornered them a second time. This time 
he succeeded in reaching an udder. He got 
a tit in his hand. He lowered himself to 
his haunches and proceeded to tug vigor- 
ously. His hand was waxy and stuck as if 
glued to the flesh. Before there was any 
sign of milk the cow gave him a swift kick 
that sent him flat on his back. By the time 
he pulled himself together again the cows 
were galloping to the other end of the pas- 
ture. 

" God ! " he muttered as he mopped the 
30 



THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 

sweat from his face with his sleeve, " if 
ye 've got aany pity or kindly feelin' giv me 
a sup ov that milk fur m' chile! Come 
on!" 

His legs trembled so that he could scarcely 
stand. Again he approached. The cows 
eyed him with sullen concern. They were 
thoroughly scared now and he could n't get 
near enough to lay a hand on any of them. 
He stood in despair, trembling from head 
to foot. He realized that what he would 
do he must do quickly. 

The morning had swift wings — it was 
flying away. Some one would be out for 
the cows ere long and his last chance would 
be gone. He dropped the can and ran to 
the farm-house. There was a stack-yard in 
the rear. He entered and took a rope from 
a stack. It was a long rope — too long for 
his use, but he did not want to destroy its 
usefulness. He dragged it through the 
hedge after him. This time with care and 
caution he got near enough to throw the 
31 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

rope over the horns of a cow. Leading 
her to a fence he tied her to it and began 
again. It came slowly. His strength was 
almost gone. He went from one side to 
the other — now at one tit, now at another. 
From his haunches he went to his knees 
and from that position he stretched out his 
legs and sat flat on the grass. He no 
sooner had a good position than the cow 
would change hers. She trampled on his 
legs and swerved from side to side, but he 
held on. It was a life and death struggle. 
The little milk at the bottom of the can 
gave him strength and courage. As he 
literally pulled it out of her his strength in- 
creased. When the can was half full he 
turned the cow loose and made for the gap 
in the hedge. Within a yard of it he heard 
the loud report of a gun and the can dropped 
to the ground. The ball had plowed 
through both lugs of the can disconnecting 
the wire handle. Not much of the milk 
was lost. He picked up the can and 
32 



THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 

started down the road as fast as his legs 
could take him. He had only gone a hun- 
dred yards when a man stepped out into the 
road and leveled a gun at him. 

" Another yard an' I '11 blow yer brains 
out! " the man said. 

" Is this yer milk? " Jamie asked. 

" Aye, an' well ye know it 's m' milk ! " 

Jamie put the can down on the road and 
stood silent. The farmer delivered himself 
of a volume of profane abuse. Jamie did 
not reply. He stood with his head bowed 
and to all appearances in a mood of peni- 
tence. 

When the man finished his threats and 
abuse he stooped to pick up the can. Be- 
fore his hand touched it Jamie sprang at 
him with the ferocity of a panther. There 
was a life and death tussle for a few sec- 
onds and both men went down on the road 
— Jamie on top. Sitting on the man's 
chest he took a wrist in each hand and 
pinned him to the ground. 
33 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Ye think I 'm a thief/' he said to the 
man as he looked at him with eyes that 
burned Hke live coals. *' I 'm not, I 'm an 
honest maan, but I haave a chile dying wi' 

hunger — now it 's your life or his, by 

an' ye '11 decide! " 

" I think yer a liar as well as a thief," the 
man said, " but if we can prove what ye say 
I'm yer friend." 

*'Will ye go with me?" 

" Aye." 

"D'ye mane it?" 

"Aye, I do!" 

" I '11 carry th' gun." 

" Ye may, there 's nothin' in it." 

" There 's enough in th' butt t' batther a 
maan's brains out." 

Jamie seized the gun and the can and 
the man got up. 

They walked down the road in silence, 
each watching the other out of the corners 
of his eyes. 

" D 'ye believe in God ? " Jamie asked ab- 
34 



THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 

ruptly. The farmer hesitated before an- 
swering. 

"Why d ye ask?" 

" I 'd like t' see a maan in these times 
that believed wi' his heart insted ov his 
mouth! " 

" Wud he let other people milk his 
cows?" asked the man, sneeringly. 

" He might n't haave cows t' milk," Ja- 
mie said. '* But he 'd be kind and not a 
glutton ! " 

They arrived at the house. The man 
w^ent in first. He stopped near the door 
and Jamie instinctively and in fear shot past 
him. What he saw dazed him. " Ah, 
God ! " he exclaimed. " She 's dead ! '* 

Anna lay on her back on the floor and 
the boy was asleep by the hearth with his 
head in the ashes. The neighbors were 
alarmed and came to assist. The farmer 
felt Anna's pulse. It was feebly flutter- 
ing. 

" She 's not dead/' he said. " Get some 
35 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

cold wather quickly!" They dashed the 
water in her face and brought her back to 
consciousness. When she looked around 
she said: 

" Who 's this kind man come in to help, 
Jamie?" 

'' He 's a farmer," Jamie said, '' an' he 's 
brot ye a pint ov nice fresh milk ! " The 
man had filled a cup with milk and put it to 
Anna's lips. She refused. "He's dy- 
ing," she said, pointing to the boy, who lay 
limp on the lap of a neighbor. The child 
was drowsy and listless. They gave him 
the cup of milk. He had scarcely enough 
strength to drink. Anna drank what was 
left, which was very little. 

" God bless you ! " Anna said as she held 
out her hand to the farmer. 

'' God save you kindly," he answered as 
he took her hand and bowed his head. 

" I 've a wife an' wains myself," he con- 
tinued, " but we 're not s' bad off on a 

36 



THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 

farm." Turning to Jamie he said: " Yer 
a Protestant!" 

" Aye." 

" An' I'm a Fenian, but we 're in t' 
face ov bigger things ! " 

He extended his hand. Jamie clasped 
it, the men looked into each other's faces 
and understood. 

That night in the dusk, the Fenian 
farmer brought a sack of potatoes and a 
quart of fresh milk and the spark of life 
was prolonged. 



37 



CHAPTER III 
REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 




AMINE not only carried off 
a million of the living, but 
it claimed also the unborn. 
Anna's second child was 
born a few months after the 
siege was broken, but the child had been 
starved in its mother's womb and lived 
only three months. There was no wake. 
Wakes are for older people. There were 
no candles to burn, no extra sheet to put 
over the old dresser, and no clock to stop at 
the moment of death. 

The little wasted thing lay in its un- 
dressed pine coffin on the table and the 
neighbors came in and had a look. Cus- 
tom said it should be kept the allotted time 
and the tyrant was obeyed. A dozen of 
those to whom a wake was a means of 

38 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

change and recreation came late and 
planted themselves for the night. 

" Ye did n't haave a hard time wi' th' 
second, did ye, Anna?" asked Mrs. Mul- 
holland. 

" No," Anna said quietly. 

"Th' hard times play'd th' divil wi' it 
before it was born, I '11 be bound," said a 
second. 

A third averred that the child was **the 
very spit out of its father's mouth.'* Ghost 
stories, stories of the famine, of hard luck, 
of hunger, of pain and the thousand and 
one aspects of social and personal sorrow 
had the changes rung on them. 

Anna sat in the comer. She had to 
listen, she had to answer when directly ad- 
dressed and the prevailing idea of polite- 
ness made her the center of every story and 
the object of every moral ! 

The refreshments were all distributed 
and diplomatically the mourners were in- 
formed that there was nothing more; 
39 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

nevertheless they stayed on and on. Nerve- 
racked and unstrung, Anna staggered to 
her feet and took Jamie to the door. 

" I '11 go mad, dear, if I have to stand it 
all night!" 

They dared not be discourteous. A rep- 
utation for heartlessness would have fol- 
lowed Anna to the grave if she had gone to 
bed while the dead child lay there. 

Withero had been at old William Far- 
ren's wake and was going home when he 
saw Anna and Jamie at the door. They 
explained the situation. 

" Take a dandther down toward th' 
church," he said, '* an' then come back." 

Willie entered the house in an apparently 
breathless condition. 

" Yer takin' it purty aisy here," he said, 
'' whin * Jowler ' Hainey 's killin' his wife 
an' wreckin' th' house ! " 

In about two minutes he was alone. He 
put a coal in his pipe and smoked for a 
minute. Then he went over to the little 
40 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

coffin. He took his pipe out of his mouth, 
laid it on the mantel-shelf and returned. 
The little hands were folded. He un- 
clasped them, took one of them in his rough 
calloused palm. 

'' Poore wee thing," he said in an under- 
tone, " poore wee thing." He put the 
hands as he found them. Still looking at 
the little baby face he added: 

" Heigho, heigho, it 's bad, purty bad, but 
it 's worse where there is n't even a dead 
wan!" 

When Anna returned she lay down on 
her bed, dressed as she was, and Jamie and 
Withero kept the vigil — with the door 
barred. Next morning at the earliest re- 
spectable hour Withero carried the little 
coffin under his arm and Jamie walked be- 
side him to the graveyard. 

During the fifteen years that followed the 
burial of '^ the famine child " they buried 
three others and saved three — four living 
and four dead. 

41 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

I was the ninth child. Anna gave me a 
Greek name which means '^ Helper of 
men." 

Shortly after my arrival in Scott's en- 
try, they moved to Pogue's entry. The 
stone cabin was thatch-covered and meas- 
ured about twelve by sixteen feet. The 
space comprised three apartments. One, a 
bedroom; over the bedroom and beneath 
the thatch a little loft that served as a bed- 
room to those of climbing age. The rest 
of it was workshop, dining-room, sitting- 
room, parlor and general community news 
center. The old folks slept in a bed, the 
rest of us slept on the floor and beneath 
the thatch. Between the bedroom door and 
the open fireplace was the chimney-corner. 
Near the door stood an old pine table and 
some dressers. They stood against the 
wall and were filled with crockery. We 
never owned a chair. There were several 
pine stools, a few creepies (small stools), 
and a long bench that ran along the bed- 
42 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

room wall, from the chimney corner to the 
bedroom door. The mud floor never had 
the luxury of a covering, nor did a pic- 
ture ever adorn the bare walls. When the 
floor needed patching, Jamie went to some- 
body's garden, brought a shovelful of earth 
mixed it and filled the holes. The stools 
and creepies were scrubbed once a week, 
the table once a day. I could draw an 
outline of that old table now and accurately 
mark every dent and crack in it. I do not 
know where it came from, but each of us 
had a hope that one day we should possess 
a pig. We built around the hope a sty and 
placed it against the end of the cabin. 
The pig never turned up, but the hope lived 
there throughout a generation! 

We owned a goat once. In three 
months it reduced the smooth kindly feel- 
ing in Pogue's entry to the point of total 
eclipse. We sold it and spent a year in 
winning back old friends. We had a gar- 
den. It measured thirty-six by sixteen 

43 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

inches, and was just outside the front win- 
dow. At one end was a small currant bush 
and in the rest of the space Anna grew an 
annual crop of nasturtiums. 

Once we were prosperous. That was 
when two older brothers worked with my 
father at shoemaking. I remember them, on 
winter nights, sitting around the big candle- 
stick — one of the three always singing folk- 
songs as he worked. As they worked near 
the window, Anna sat in her corner and by 
the light of a candle in her little sconce made 
waxed ends for the men. I browsed among 
the lasts, clipping, cutting and scratching old 
leather parings and dreaming of the won- 
derful days beyond when I too could make 
a boot and sing " Black-eyed Susan." 

Then the news came — news of a 
revolution. 

" They 're making boots by machinery 
now," Anna said one day. 

" It 's dotin' ye are, Anna," Jamie re- 
plied. She read the account. 
44 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

*' How cud a machine make a boot, 
Anna?" he asked in bewilderment. 

" I don't know, dear." 

Barney McQuillan was the village au- 
thority on such things. When he told 
Jamie, he looked aghast and said, '* How 
quare ! " 

Then makers became menders — shoe- 
makers became cobblers. There was some- 
thing of magic and romance in the news 
that a machine could turn out as much 
work as twenty-five men, but when my 
brothers moved away to other parts of 
the world to find work, the romance was 
rubbed off. 

"Maybe we can get a machine?" Jamie 
said. 

" Aye, but shure ye 'd have to get a fac- 
tory to put it in! " 

"Is that so?" 

" Aye, an' we find it hard enough t' pay 
fur what we 're in now ! " 

Barney McQuillan was the master-shoe- 
45 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

maker in our town who was best able to 
readjust himself to changed conditions. 
He became a master-cobbler and doled out 
what he took in to men like Jamie. He 
kept a dozen men at work, making a little 
off each, just as the owner of the machine 
did in the factory. In each case the need 
of skill vanished and the power of capital 
advanced. Jamie dumbly took what was 
left — cobbling for Barney. To Anna the 
whole thing meant merely the death of a 
few more hopes. For over twenty years 
she had fought a good fight, a fight in which 
she played a losing part, though she was 
never wholly defeated. 

Her first fight was against slang and 
slovenly speech. She started early in their 
married life to correct Jamie. He tried 
hard and often, but he found it difficult to 
speak one language to his wife and another 
to his customers. From the lips of Anna, 
it sounded all right, but the same pronun- 

46 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

ciation by Jamie seemed affected and his 
customers gaped at him. 

Then she directed her efforts anew to the 
children. One after another she corrected 
their grammar and pronunciation, cor- 
rected them every day and every hour of 
the day that they were in her presence. 
Here again she was doomed to failure. 
The children lived on the street and spoke 
its language. It seemed a hopeless task. 
She never whined over it. She was too 
busy cleaning, cooking, sewing and at odd 
times helping Jamie, but night after night 
for nearly a generation she took stock of a 
life's effort and each milestone on the way 
spelt failure. She could see no light — 
not a glimmer. Not only had she failed 
to impress her language upon others, but 
she found herself gradually succumbing to 
her environment and actually lapsing into 
vulgar forms herself. There was a larger 
and more vital conflict than the one she 
47 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

had lost. It was the fight against dirt. In 
such small quarters, with so many children 
and such activity in work she fought 
against great odds. Bathing facilities 
were almost impossible: water had to be 
brought from the town well, except what 
fell on the roof, and that was saved for 
washing clothes. Whatever bathing there 
was, was done in the tub in which Jamie 
steeped his leather. We children were 
suspicious that when Jamie bathed Anna 
had a hand in it. They had a joke be- 
tween them that could only be explained on 
that basis. She called it ''grooming the 
elephant." 

" Jist wait, m' boy," she would say in a 
spirit of kindly banter, '' till the elephant 
has to be groomed, and I '11 bring ye down 
a peg or two." 

There was a difference of opinion among 
them as to the training of children. 

*' No chile iver thrived on saft words," 
he said ; '' a wet welt is betther." 

48 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

'' Aye, yer wet welt stings th' flesh, 
Jamie, but it niver gets at a chile's mind." 

'' Thrue for you, but who th' kin 

get at a chile's mind?" 

One day I was chased into the house by 
a bigger boy. I had found a farthing. 
He said it was his. The money was 
handed over and the boy left with his 
tongue in his cheek. I was ordered to 
strip. When ready he laid me across his 
knee and applied the " wet welt." 

An hour later it was discovered that a 
week had elapsed between the losing and 
finding of the farthing. No sane person 
would believe that a farthing could lie 
for a whole week on the streets of An- 
trim. 

*' Well," he said, '' ye need a warmin' 
like that ivery day, an' ye had nown yes- 
therday, did ye? " 

On another occasion I found a ball, one 
that had never been lost. A boy, hoping 
to get me in front of my father, claimed 
49 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

the ball. My mother on this occasion sat 
in judgment. 

''Where did you get the ball?" she 
asked the boy. He could n't remember. 
She probed for the truth, but neither 
of us would give in. When all efforts 
failed she cut the ball in half and gave each 
a piece! 

" Nixt time I '11 tell yer Dah," the boy 
said when he got outside, " he makes you 
squeal like a pig." 

When times were good — when work 
and wages got a little ahead of hunger, 
which was seldom, Anna baked her own 
bread. Three kinds of bread she baked. 
" Soda," — common flour bread, never in 
the shape of a loaf, but bread that lay flat 
on the griddle; " pirta oaten" — made of 
flour and oatmeal ; and " f adge " — potato 
bread. She always sung while baking and 
she sang the most melancholy and plaintive 
airs. As she baked and sang I stood beside 
her on a creepie watching the process and 

50 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

awaiting the end, for at the close of each 
batch of bread I always had my '' duragh " 
— an extra piece. 

When hunger got ahead of wages the 
family bread was bought at Sam Johnson's 
bakery. The journey to Sam's was full 
of temptation to me. Hungry and with a 
vested interest in the loaf on my arm, I 
was not over punctilious in details of the 
moral law. Anna pointed out the oppor- 
tunities of such a journey. It was a 
chance to try my mettle with the arch 
tempter. It was a mental gymnasium in 
which moral muscle got strength. There 
was n't in all Ireland a mile of highway 
so well paved with good intentions. I used 
to start out, well keyed up morally and 
humming over and over the order of the 
day. When, on the home stretch, I had 
made a dent in Sam's architecture, I would 
lay the loaf down on the table, good side 
toward my mother. While I was doing 
that she had read the story of the fall on 

51 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

my face. I could feel her penetrating 
gaze. 

"So he got ye, did he?" 

" Aye," I would say in a voice too low 
to be heard by my father. 

The order at Sam's was usually a six- 
penny loaf, three ha'pence worth of tea 
and sugar and half an ounce of tobacco. 

There were times when Barney had no 
work for my father, and on such occasions 
I came home empty-handed. Then Jamie 
would go out to find work as a day laborer. 
Periods like these were glossed over by 
Anna's humor and wit. As they sat 
around the table, eating '' stir-about " 
without milk, or bread without tea, Jamie 
would grunt and complain. 

" Aye, faith," Anna would say, " it 's 
purty bad, but it 's worse where there 's 
none at all ! " 

When the wolf lingered long at the door 
I went foraging — foraging as forages a 
hungry dog and in the same places. 
52 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

Around the hovels of the poor where dogs 
have clean teeth a boy has little chance. 
One day, having exhausted the ordinary 
channels of relief without success, I betook 
myself to the old swimming-hole on the mill 
race. The boys had a custom of taking a 
" shiverin' bite " when they went bathing. 
It was on a Sunday afternoon in July and 
quite a crowd sat around the hole. I 
neither needed nor wanted a bath — I 
wanted a bite. No one offered a share of 
his crust. A big boy named Healy was 
telling of his prowess as a fighter. 

" I '11 fight ye fur a penny ! " said I. 

"Where's yer penny?" said Healy. 

" I '11 get it th' morra." 

A man seeing the difficulty and willing 
to invest in a scrap advanced the wager. 
I was utterly outclassed and beaten. Peel- 
ing my clothes off I went into the race for 
a swim and to wash the blood off. When 
I came out Healy had hidden my trousers. 
I searched for hours in vain. The man 
53 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

who paid the wager gave me an extra 
penny and I went home holding my jacket 
in front of my legs. The penny saved me 
from a '' warming," but Anna, feeling that 
some extra discipline was necessary, made 
me a pair of trousers out of an old potato 
sack. 

" That 's sackcloth, dear," she said, '' an' 
ye can aither sit in th' ashes in them or 
wear them in earning another pair! Hold 
fast t' yer penny ! " 

In this penitential outfit I had to sell my 
papers. Every fiber of my being tingled 
with shame and humiliation. I did n't 
complain of the penance, but I swore 
vengeance on Healy. She worked the de- 
sire for vengeance out of my system in her 
chimney-corner by reading to me often 
enough, so that I memorized the fifty- 
third chapter of Isaiah. Miss McGee, the 
postmistress, gave me sixpence for the ac- 
complishment and that went toward a 
new pair of trousers. Concerning Healy, 
54 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

Anna said : " Bate 'im with a betther 
brain, dear! " 

Despite my fistic encounters, my dents 
in the family loaves, my shinny, my mar- 
bles and the various signs of total or at 
least partial depravity, Anna clung to the 
hope that out of this thing might finally 
come what she was looking, praying and 
hoping for. 

An item on the credit side of my ledger 
was that I was born in a caul — a thin 
filmy veil that covered me at birth. Of 
her twelve I was the only one born in 
" luck." In a little purse she kept the 
caul, and on special occasions she would 
exhibit it and enumerate the benefits and 
privileges that went with it. Persons born 
in a caul were immune from being hung, 
drawn and quartered, burned to death or 
lost at sea. 

It was on the basis of the caul I 
was rented to old Mary McDonagh. My 
duty was to meet her every Monday morn- 
55 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

ing. The meeting insured her luck for the 
week. Mary was a huckster. She car- 
ried her shop on her arm — a wicker 
basket in which she had thread, needles, 
ribbons and other things which she sold 
to the farmers and folks away from the 
shopping center. No one is lucky while 
bare- footed. Having no shoes I clattered 
down Sandy Somerville's entry in my 
father's. At the first clatter, she came out, 
basket on arm, and said: 

" Morra, bhoy, God's blessin' on ye!" 

" Morra, Mary, an' good luck t' ye," was 
my answer. 

I used to express my wonder that I 
could n't turn this luck of a dead-sure 
variety into a pair of shoes for myself. 

Anna said : " Yer luck, dear, is n't in 
what ye can get, but in what ye can give ! " 

When Antrim opened its first flower 

show I was a boy of all work at old Mrs. 

Chaine's. The gardener was pleased with 

my work and gave me a hothouse plant to 

S6 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

put in competition. I carried it home 
proudly and laid it down beside her in the 
chimney-corner. 

" The gerd'ner says it '11 bate th' brains 
out on aany geranium in the show!" I 
said. 

" Throth it will that, dear," she said, 
*' but sure ye could n't take a prize 
fur it!" 

"Why?" I growled. 

" Ah, honey, shure everybody would 
know that ye did n't grow it — f orby they 
know that th' smoke in here would kill it 
in a few days." 

I sulked and protested. 

'' That 's a nice way t' throw cowld 
wather on th' chile," Jamie said. " Why 
don't ye let 'im go on an' take his chances 
at the show? " 

A pained look overspread her features. 
It was as if he had struck her with his fist. 
Her eyes filled with tears and she said 
huskily : 

57 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" The whole world 's a show, Jamie, an' 
this is the only place the wee fella has to 
rehearse in." 

I sat down beside her and laid my head 
in her lap. She stroked it in silence for 
a minute or two. I covld n't quite see, 
however, how I could miss that show! 
She saw that after all I was determined 
to enter the lists. She offered to put a card 
on it for me so that they would know the 
name of the owner. This is what she 
wrote on the card : 

'' This plant is lent for decorative 
purposes." 

That night there was an unusual atmos- 
phere in her corner. She had a newly 
tallied cap on her head and her little Sun- 
day shawl over her shoulders. Her candle 
was burning and the hearthstones had an 
extra coat of whitewash. She drew me up 
close beside her and told me a story. 

" Once, a long, long time ago, God, 
feelin' tired, went to sleep an' had a nice 

58 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

wee nap on His throne. His head was in 
His han's an' a wee white cloud came 
down an' covered him up. Purty soon He 
wakes up an' says He: 

*** Where's Michael?' 

'' ' Here I am, Father ! ' said Michael. 

'' ' Michael, me boy,' says God, ' I want a 
chariot and a charioteer ! ' 

" ' Right ye are ! ' says he. Up comes the 
purtiest chariot in the city of Heaven an' 
finest charioteer. 

*' ' Me boy,' says God, ' take a million 
tons ov th' choicest seeds of th' flowers of 
Heaven an' take a trip around th' world 
wi' them. Scatther them,' says He, ' be 
th' roadsides an' th' wild places of th' 
earth where my poor live.' 

" * Aye,' says the charioteer, ' that 's jist 
like ye. Father. It 's th' purtiest job of m' 
afther-life an' I '11 do it finely.' 

" ' It 's jist come t' Me in a dream,' says 
th' Father, * that th' rich have all the 
flowers down there and th' poor haave 
59 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

nown at all. If a million tons is n't enough 
take a billion tons ! ' " 

At this point I got in some questions 
about God's language and the kind of 
flowers. 

" Well, dear," she said, " He spakes 
Irish f Irish people and the charioteer was 
an Irishman." 

''Maybe it was a wuman!" I ven- 
tured. 

" Aye, but there 's no difference up 
there.'^ 

" Th' flowers," she said, " were prim- 
roses, butthercups an' daisies an' th' 
flowers that be handy t' th' poor, an' from 
that day to this there 's been flowers 
a-plenty for all of us everywhere ! " 

" Now you go to-morra an' gether a 
basketful an' we '11 fix them up in th' shape 
of th' Pryamid of Egypt an' maybe ye '11 
get a prize." 

I spent the whole of the following day, 
from dawn to dark, roaming over the wild 
60 



REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 

places near Antrim gathering the flowers 
of the poor. My mother arranged them in a 
novel bouquet — a bouquet of wild flowers, 
the base of it yellow primroses, the apex 
of pink shepherd's sundials, and between 
the base and the apex one of the greatest 
variety of wild flowers ever gotten together 
in that part of the world. 

It created a sensation and took first prize. 
At the close of the exhibition Mrs. James 
Chaine distributed the prizes. When my 
name was called I w^ent forward slowly, 
blushing in my rags, and received a twenty- 
four piece set of china ! It gave me a fit ! 
I took it home, put it in her lap and 
danced. We held open house for a week, 
so that every man, woman and child 
in the community could come in and 
" handle " it. 

Withero said we ought to save up and 
build a house to keep it in! 

She thought that a propitious time to 
explain the inscription she put on the card. 
6i 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Ah, thin," I said, '' shure it 's thrue 
what ye always say." 
"What's that, dear?" 
" It 's nice t' be nice." 



62 




CHAPTER IV 
SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

AMIE and Anna kept the 
Sabbath. It was a habit 
with them and the children 
got it, one after another, as 
they came along. When 
the town clock struck twelve on Saturday 
night the week's work was done. The cus- 
tomers were given fair warning that at 
the hour of midnight the bench would be 
put away until Monday morning. There 
was nothing theological about the observ- 
ance. It was a custom, not a code. 
Anna looked upon it as an over-punctilious 
notion. More than once she was heard to 
say : ** The Sabbath was made for maan, 
Jamie, and not maan for th' Sabbath." 
His answer had brevity and point. '' I 

63 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

don't care a damn what it was made for, 
Anna, I '11 quit at twelve." And he quit. 

Sometimes Anna would take an unfin- 
ished job and finish it herself. There 
were things in cobbling she could do as 
well as Jamie. Her defense of doing it 
in the early hours of the Sabbath was: 
" Sure God has more important work to 
do than to sit up late to watch us mend the 
boots of the poor; forby it's better to 
haave ye're boots mended an' go to church 
than to sit in th' ashes on Sunday an' swal- 
low the smoke of bad turf! " 

"Aye," Jamie would say, "it's jist 
wondtherful what we can do if we haave 
th' right kind ov a conscience!" 

Jamie's first duty on Sunday was to clean 
out the thrush's cage. He was very proud 
of Dicky and gave him a bath every morn- 
ing and a house cleaning on Sunday. We 
children loved Sunday. On that day 
Anna reigned. She wore her little shawl 
over her shoulders and her hair was en- 

64 



SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

closed in a newly tallied white cap. She 
smoked little, but on Sundays after dinner 
she always had her " dhraw " with Jamie. 
Anna's Sunday chore was to whitewash 
the hearthstones and clean the house. 
When the table w^as laid for Sunday break- 
fast and the kettle hung on the chain sing- 
ing and Anna was in her glory of white 
linen, the children were supremely happy. 
In their wildest dreams there was nothing 
quite as beautiful as that. Whatever hun- 
ger, disappointment, or petty quarrel hap- 
pened during the week it was forgotten on 
Sunday. It was a day of supreme peace. 
Sunday breakfast was what she called 
a " puttiby," something light to tide them 
over until dinner time. Dinner was the 
big meal of the week. At every meal I 
sat beside my mother. If we had stir- 
about, I was favored, but not enough to 
arouse jealousy: I scraped the pot. If it 
was " tay," I got a few bits of the crust 
of Anna's bread. We called it " scroof." 

65 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

About ten o'clock the preparations for 
the big dinner began. We had meat once 
a week. At least it was the plan to have 
it so often. Of course there were times 
when the plan did n't work, but when it did 
Sunday was meat day. The word *' meat " 
was never used. It was " kitchen " or 
" beef." Both words meant the same 
thing, and bacon might be meant by either 
of them. 

In nine cases out of ten, Sunday 
" kitchen " was a cow's head, a " calf's 
head and pluck," a pair of cow's feet, a 
few sheep's " trotters " or a quart of sheep's 
blood. Sometimes it was the entrails of 
a pig. Only when there was no money for 
" kitchen " did we have blood. It was at 
first fried and then made part of the broth. 

The broth-pot on Sunday was the center. 
The economic status of a family could be 
as easily gaged by tasting their broth as 
by counting the weekly income. Big 
money, good broth; little money, thin 
66 



SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

broth. The sHmmer the resource the fewer 
the ingredients. The pot was an index to 
every condition and the taHsman of every 
family. It was an opportunity to show off. 
When Jamie donned a '' dickey " once to 
attend a funeral and came home with it in 
his pocket, no comment was made; but if 
Anna made poor broth it was the talk of 
the entry for a week. 

Good broth consisted of " kitchen," bar- 
ley, greens and lithing. Next to " kitchen " 
barley was the most expensive ingredient. 
Folks in Pogue's entry did n't always have 
it, but there were a number of cheap sub- 
stitutes, such as hard peas or horse beans. 
Amongst half a dozen families in and 
around the entry there was a broth ex- 
change. Each family made a few extra 
quarts and exchanged them. They were 
distributed in quart tin cans. Each can 
was emptied, washed, refilled and returned. 
Ann O'Hare, the chimneysweep's wife, was 
usually first on hand. She had the un- 

67 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER: 

enviable reputation of being the " dhirtiest 
craither " in the community. Jamie called 
her " Sooty Ann.'' 

" There 's a gey good smell from yer pot, 
Anna," she said; "what haave ye in it th' 
day?" 

" Oh, jist a few sheep's throtters and a 
wheen of nettles." 

" Who gethered th' nettles ? " 

Anna pointed to me. 

"Did th' sting bad, me baughal?" 

" Ded no, not aany," I said. 

"Did ye squeeze thim tight?" 

" I put m' Dah's socks on m' ban's." 

" Aye, that 's a good thrick." 

Anna had a mouth that looked like a 
torn pocket. She could pucker it into the 
queerest shapes. She smacked her thin blue 
lips, puckered her mouth a number of times 
while Anna emptied and refilled the can. 

" If this is as good as it smells," she said 
as she went out, " I '11 jist sup it myself 
and let oul Billy go chase himself!" 



SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

Jamie was the family connoisseur in mat- 
ters relating to broth. He tasted Ann's. 
The family waited for the verdict. 

'* Purty good barley an' lithin'," he said, 
** but it smells like Billy's oul boots." 

" Shame on ye, Jamie," Anna said. 

" Well, give us your highfalutin' opinion 
ov it ! " Anna sipped a spoonful and re- 
marked : *' It might be worse." 

" Aye, it 's worse where there *s nown, 
but on yer oath now d 'ye think Sooty Ann 
washed her ban's?" 

" Good clane dhirt will poison no one, 
Jamie." 

'' Thrue, but this is n't clane dhirt, it 's 
soot — bitther soot ! " 

It was agreed to pass the O'Hare de- 
lection. When it cooled I quietly gave it 
to my friend Rover — Mrs. Lorimer's dog. 

Hen Cassidy came next. Hen's mother 
was a widow who lived on the edge of 
want. Hen and I did a little barter and ex- 
change on the side, while Anna emptied 

69 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

and refilled his can. He had scarcely gone 
when the verdict was rendered: 

" Bacon an' nettles," Jamie said, *' she 's 
as hard up as we are, this week! " 

" Poor craither," Anna said ; " I won- 
dther if she 's got aany thing besides broth ? '' 
Nobody knew. Anna thought she knew a 
way to find out. 

" Haave ye aany marbles, dear?" she 
asked me. 

** Aye, a wheen." 

" Wud ye give a wheen to me ? " 

"Aye, are ye goin' t' shoot awhile? If 
ye are I '11 give ye half an' shoot ye fur 
thim ! " I said. 

" No, I jist want t' borra some." I 
handed out a handful of marbles. 

*' Now don't glunch, dear, when I tell 
ye what I want thim fur." I promised. 

" Whistle fur Hen," she said, " and give 
him that han'ful of marbles if he '11 tell ye 
what his mother haas fur dinner th' day." 

I whistled and Hen responded. 



SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

" I '11 bate ye two chanies, Hen, that I 
know w^hat ye 've got fur dinner!" 

"I'll bate ye!" said Hen, "show yer 
chanies ! " 

" Show yours ! " said I. 

Hen had none, but I volunteered to trust 
him. 

" Go on now, guess ! " said he. 

" Pirtas an' broth! " said I. 

" Yer blinked, ye cabbage head, we 've 
got two yards ov thripe forby ! " 

I carried two quarts to as many neigh- 
bors. Mary carried three. As they were 
settling down to dinner Arthur Gainer 
arrived with his mother's contribution. 
Jamie sampled it and laughed outright. 

" An oul cow put 'er feet in it," he said. 
Anna took a taste. 

" She did n't keep it in long aither," was 
her comment. 

" D' ye iver mind seein' barley in Gain- 
er's broth ? " Jamie asked. 

" I haave no recollection." 
71 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" If there is n't a kink in m' power of 
remembrance," Jamie said, " they 've had 
nothin' but bacon an' nettles since th' big 
famine." 

"What did th' haave before that?" 
Anna asked. 

" Bacon an' nettles," he said. 

" Did ye ever think, Jamie, how like folks 
are to th' broth they make?" 

" No," he said, '^ but there 's no raisin 
why people should sting jist because 
they 've got nothin' but nettles in their 
broth ! " 

The potatoes were emptied out of the 
pot on the bare table, my father encircling 
it with his arms to prevent them from roll- 
ing off. A little pile of salt was placed 
beside each person and each had a big 
bowl full of broth. The different kinds 
had lost their identity in the common 
pot. 

In the midst of the meal came visitors. 

'' Much good may it do ye! " said Billy 
72 



SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

Baxter as he walked in with his hands in 
his pockets. 

" Thank ye, Billy, haave a good bowl of 
broth ? " 

'^ Thank ye, thank ye," he said. *' I 
don't mind a good bowl ov broth, Anna, 
but I'd prefer a bowl — jist a bowl of 
good broth! " 

'' Ye 've had larks for breakvist surely, 
haave n't ye, Billy?" Anna said. 

" No, I did n't, but there 's a famine of 
good broth these days. When I was young 
we had the rale McKie!" Billy took a 
bowl, nevertheless, and went to Jamie's 
bench to " sup " it. 

Eliza Wallace, the fish woman, came in. 

" Much good may it do ye," she said. 

" Thank ye kindly, 'Liza, sit down an' 
haave a bowl of broth! " It was baled out 
and Eliza sat down on the floor near the 
window. 

McGrath, the rag man, " dhrapped in." 
*' Much good may it do ye ! " he said. 

73 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Thank ye kindly, Tom," Anna said, 
" ye '11 surely have a bowl ov broth." 

" Jist wan spoonful," McGrath said. 
I emptied my bowl at a nod from 
Anna, rinsed it out at the tub and filled 
it with broth. McGrath sat on the door- 
step. 

After the dinner Anna read a story from 
the Weekly Budget and the family and 
guests sat around and listened. Then came 
the weekly function, over which there 
invariably arose an altercation amongst 
the children. It was the Sunday visit of 
the Methodist tract distributor — Miss 
Clarke. It was not an unmixed dread, for 
sometimes she brought a good story and 
the family enjoyed it. The usual row took 
place as to who should go to the door and 
return the tract. It was finally decided 
that I should face the ordeal. My prep- 
aration was to wash my feet, rake my 
hair into order and soap it down, cover up 
a few holes and await the gentle knock on 
74 



SUNDAY IN POGUFS ENTRY 

the doorpost. It came and I bounded to 
the door, tract in hand. 

" Good afternoon," she began, '' did 
your mother read the tract this week?" 

*' Yis, mem, an' she says it 's fine." 

" Do you remember the name of it? " 

" * Get yer own Cherries/ " said I. 

" B-u-y/' came the correction in clear 
tones from behind the partition. 

" ' Buy yer own Cherries,' it is, mem." 

" That 's better," the lady said. " Some 
people get cherries, other people buy them." 

" Aye." 

I never bought any. I knew every wild- 
cherry tree within twenty miles of Antrim. 
The lady saw an opening and went in. 
" Did you ever get caught? " she asked. I 
hung my head. Then followed a brief lec- 
ture on private property — brief, for it was 
cut short by Anna, who, without any 
apology or introduction, said as she con- 
fronted the slum evangel: 

*'Is God our Father?" 
75 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Yes, indeed," the lady answered. 

"An' we are all His childther?" 

" Assuredly." 

" Would ye starve yer brother Tom?" 

"Of course not." 

" But ye don't mind s' much th' starva- 
tion of all yer other wee brothers an' sis- 
ters on th' streets, do ye ? " 

There was a commotion behind the paper 
partition. The group stood in breathless 
silence until the hunger question was put, 
then they " dunched " each other and made 
faces. My father took a handful of my 
hair, and gave it a good-natured but vigor- 
ous tug to prevent an explosion. 

"Oh, Anna!" she said, "you are mis- 
taken ; I would starve nobody — and far 
be it from me to accuse — " 

" Accuse," said Anna, raising her gentle 
voice. " Why, acushla, nobody needs t' 
accuse th' poor; th' guilty need no accuser. 
We 're convicted by bein' poor, by bein' 
bom poor an' dying poor, are n't we now ? " 

76 



SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

" With the Lord there is neither rich nor 
poor, Anna." 

" Aye, an' that 's no news to me, but with 
good folks hke you it 's different." 

" No, indeed, I assure you I think that 
exactly." 

" Well, now, if it makes no diff'rence, 
dear, why do ye come down Pogue's entry 
like a bailiff or a process-sarver ? " 

" I did n't, I just hinted — " 

" Aye, ye hinted an' a wink 's as good as 
a nod to a blind horse. Now tell me truly 
an' cross yer heart — wud ye go to Bally- 
craigie doore an' talk t' wee Willie Chaine 
as ye talked t' my bhoy jist now? " 

"No—" 

" No, 'deed ye wud n't for th' wud n't let 
ye, but because we 've no choice ye come 
down here like a petty sessions-magistrate 
an' make my bhoy feel like a thief because 
he goes like a crow an' picks a wild cherry 
or a sloe that wud rot on the tree. D 'ye 
know Luke thirteen an' nineteen?" 
77 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

The lady opened her Bible, but before she 
found the passage Anna was reading from 
her old yellow backless Bible about the birds 
that lodged in the branches of the trees. 

" Did they pay aany rent? " she asked as 
she closed the book. " Did th' foxes have 
leases fur their holes ? " 

" No." 

" No, indeed, an' d' ye think He cares less 
fur boys than birds ? " 

" Oh, no." 

" Oh, no, an' ye know rightly that every- 
thing aroun' Antrim is jist a demesne full 
o' pheasants an' rabbits for them quality 
t' shoot, an' we git thransported if we get 
a male whin we 're hungry! " 

The lady was tender-hearted and full of 
sympathy, but she had n't traveled along 
the same road as Anna and did n't know. 
Behind the screen the group was jubilant, 
but when they saw the sympathy on the 
tract woman's face they sobered and looked 
sad. 

78 



SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

" I must go," she said, " and God bless 
you, Anna," and Anna replied, " God bless 
you kindly, dear." 

When Anna went behind the screen 
Jamie grabbed her and pressed her closely 
to him. " Ye 're a match for John Rae 
any day, ye are that, woman ! " 

The kettle was lowered to the burning 
turf and there was a round of tea. The 
children and visitors sat on the floor. 

*' Now that ye 're in sich fine fettle, 
Anna," Jamie said, *' jist toss th' cups for 
us!" 

She took her own cup, gave it a peculiar 
twist and placed it mouth down on the 
saucer. Then she took it up and examined 
it quizzically. The leaves straggled hiero- 
glyphically over the inside. The group got 
their heads together and looked with seri- 
ous faces at the cup. 

" There 's a ship comin' across th' sea — 
an' I see a letther ! " 

'' It 's for me, I '11 bate," Jamie said. 
79 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

'* No, dear, it 's fur me." 

" Take it," Jamie said, '' it *s maybe 
a dispossess from oul Savage th' land- 
lord!" 

She took Jamie's cup. 

" There 's a wee bit of a garden wi' a 
fence aroun' it." 

'' Wud that be Savage givin' us a bit of 
groun' next year t' raise pirtas ? " 

" Maybe." 

'' Maybe we 're goin' t' flit, where 
there 's a perch or two wi' th' house ! " 

A low whistle outside attracted my at- 
tention and I stole quietly away. It was 
Sonny Johnson, the baker's son, and he had 
a little bundle under his arm. We boys 
were discussing a very serious proposition 
when Anna appeared on the scene. 

" Morra, Sonny!" 

" Morra, Anna!" 

'' Aany day but Sunday he may go, dear, 
but not th' day." 

That was all that was needed. Sonny 
80 



SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

wanted me to take him bird-nesting. He 
had the price in the bundle. 

" If I give ye this now,'' he said, " will 
ye come some other day fur nothin' ? " 

" Aye." 

In the bundle was a " bap " — a diamond- 
shaped, flat, penny piece of bread. I re- 
joined the cup-tossers. 

Another whistle. ''That's Arthur," 
Anna said. " No shinny th' day, mind ye." 

I joined Arthur and we sat on the wall 
of Gainer's pigsty. We had n't been there 
long when " Chisty " McDowell, the super- 
intendent of the Methodist Sunday School, 
was seen over in Scott's garden rounding 
up his scholars. We were in his line of 
vision and he made for us. We saw him 
coming and hid in the inner sanctum of 
the sty. The pig was in the little outer 
yard. " Chisty " was a wiry little man of 
great zeal but little humor. It was his 
minor talent that came into play on this 
occasion, however. 

8i 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Come, boys, come," he said, " I know 
ye 're in there. We 've got a beautiful les- 
son to-day." We crouched in a corner, 
still silent. 

"Come, boys," he urged, *' don't keep 
me waiting. The lesson is about the 
Prodigal Son." 

" Say somethin', Arthur," I urged. He 
did. 

" T' hell wi' the Prodigal Son! " he said, 
whereupon the little man jumped the low 
wall into the outer yard and drove the big, 
grunting, wallowing sow in on top of us! 
Our yells could be heard a mile away. We 
came out and were collared and taken off 
to Sunday School. 

When I returned, the cups were all 
tossed and the visitors had gone, but Willie 
Withero had dropped in and was invited 
to '' stap " for tea. He was our most wel- 
come visitor and there was but one house 
where he felt at home. 

" Tay " that evening consisted of " stir- 
82 



SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 

about," Sonny Johnson's unearned bap 
and buttermilk. Willie made more noise 
'* suppin' " his stir-about than Jamie did, and 
I said: 

" Did ye iver hear ov th' cow that got 
her foot stuck in a bog, Willie?" 

"No, boy, what did she do?" 

" She got it out ! " A stern look from 
Jamie prevented the application. 

''Tell me, Willie," Anna said, "is it 
thrue that ye can blink a cow so that she 
can give no milk at all?" 

" It 's jist a hoax, Anna, some oul bitch 
said it an' th' others cackle it from doore 
to doore. I 've naither wife nor wain, 
chick nor chile, I ate th' bread ov loneliness 
an' keep m' own company an' jist bekase I 
don't blether wi' th' gossoons th' think I 'm 
uncanny. Is n't that it, Jamie, eh ! " 

" Aye, ye 're right, Willie, it 's quare what 
bletherin' fools there are in this town ! " 

Willie held his full spoon in front of his 
mouth while he replied: 

83 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

*' It 's you that 's the dacent maan, 
Jamie, 'deed it is." 

** The crocks are empty, dear," Anna said 
to me. After " tay," to the town well I 
went for the night's supply of water. 
When I returned the dishes were washed 
and on the dresser. The floor was swept 
and the family were swappin' stories with 
Withero. Sunday was ever the day of 
Broth and Romance. Anna made the best 
broth and told the best stories. No Sunday 
was complete without a good story. On 
the doorstep that night she told one of her 
best. As she finished the church bell 
tolled the curfew. Then the days of the 
month were tolled off. 

" Sammy's arm is gey shtrong th' night," 
Willie said. 

" Aye," Jamie said, " an' th' oul bell 's got 
a fine ring." 



84 




CHAPTER V 
HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

HEN Anna had to choose 
between love and religion — 
the religion of an institu- 
tion — she chose love. Her 
faith in God remained un- 
shaken, but her methods of approach were 
the forms of love rather than the symbols 
or ceremonies of a sect. Twelve times in 
a quarter of a century she appeared publicly 
in the parish church. Each time it was to 
lay on the altar of religion the fruit of her 
love. Nine-tenths of those twelve congre- 
gations would not have known her if they 
had met her on the street One-tenth were 
those who occupied the charity pews. 

Religion in our town had arrayed the 
inhabitants into two hostile camps. She 

85 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

never had any sympathy with the fight. 
She was neutral. She pointed out to the 
fanatics around her that the basis of re- 
hgion was love and that religion that ex- 
pressed itself in faction fights must have 
hate at the bottom of it, not love. She had 
a philosophy of religion that worked. To 
the sects it would have been rank heresy, 
but the sects did n't know she existed and 
those who were benefited by her quaint and 
unique application of religion to life were 
almost as obscure as she was. I was the 
first to discover her " heresy " and oppose 
it. She lived to see me repent of my folly. 
In a town of two thousand people less 
than two hundred were familiar with her 
face, and half of them knew her because at 
one time or another they had been to 
" Jamie's " to have their shoes made or 
mended, or because they lived in our imme- 
diate vicinity. Of the hundred who knew 
her face, less than half of them were familiar 
enough to call her " Anna." Of all the peo- 
86 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

pie who had lived in Antrim as long as she 
had, she was the least known. 

No feast or function could budge her out 
of her corner. There came a time when 
her family became as accustomed to her re- 
fusal as she had to her environment and 
we ceased to coax or urge her. She never 
attended a picnic, a soiree or a dance in 
Antrim. One big opportunity for social 
intercourse amongst the poor is a wake — 
she never attended a wake. She often took 
entire charge of a wake for a neighbor, but 
she directed the affair from her corner. 

She had a slim sort of acquaintance with 
three intellectual men. They were John 
Gait, William Green and John Gordon 
Holmes, vicars in that order of the parish 
of Antrim. They visited her once a year 
and at funerals — the funerals of her own 
dead. None of them knew her. They 
had n't time, but there were members of 
our own family who knew as little of her 
mind as they did. 

87 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

She did not seek obscurity. It seemed to 
have sought and found her. One avenue 
of escape after another was closed and she 
settled down at last to her lot in the chim- 
ney-corner. Her hopes, beliefs and aspi- 
rations were expressed in what she did 
rather than in what she said, though she 
said much, much that is still treasured, long 
after she has passed away. 

Henry Lecky was a young fisherman on 
Lough Neagh. He was a great favorite 
with the children of the entries. He loved 
to bring us a small trout each when he re- 
turned after a long fishing trip. He died 
suddenly, and Eliza, his mother, came at 
once for help to the chimney corner. 

'' He 's gone, Anna, he 's gone ! " she 
said as she dropped on the floor beside 
Anna. 

" An' ye want me t'* do for yer dead 
what ye 'd do for mine, 'Liza?" 

" Aye, aye, Anna, yer God's angel to yer 
frien's." 

88 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

" Go an' fetch 'Liza Conlon, Jane 
Burrows and Marget Houston ! " was An- 
na's order to Jamie. 

The women came at once. The plan 
was outlined, the labor apportioned and 
they went to work. Jamie went for the 
carpenter and hired William Gainer to dig 
the grave. Eliza Conlon made the shroud, 
Jane Burrows and Anna washed and laid 
out the corpse, and Mrs. Houston kept 
Eliza in Anna's bed until the preliminaries 
for the wake were completed. 

" Ye can go now, Mrs. Houston," Anna 
said, " an' I '11 mind 'Liza." 

" The light 's gone out o' m' home an' 
darkness fills m' heart, Anna, an' it 's the 
sun that '11 shine for m' no more ! Ochone, 
ochone ! " 

'' 'Liza dear, I 've been w^here ye are 
now, too often not t' know that aanything 
that aanybody says is jist like spittin' at 
a burnin' house t' put it out. Yer boy 's 
gone — we can't bring 'im back. Fate 's 

89 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

cut yer heart in two an' oul Docther Time 
an' the care of God are about the only 
shure cures goin'." 

^' Cud n't the ministher help a little if he 
was here, Anna? " 

*' If ye think so I '11 get him, 'Liza! '* 

" He might put th' love of God in me! " 

'' Puttin' th' love of God in ye is n't like 
stuffin' yer mouth with a pirta, 'Liza ! " 

'^ That 's so, it is, but he might thry, 
Anna!" 

" Well, ye'll haave ^im." 

Mr. Green came and gave 'Liza what con- 
solation he could. He read the appropriate 
prayer, repeated the customary words. He 
did it all in a tender tone and departed. 

" Ye feel fine afther that, don't ye, 
'Liza?" 

" Aye, but Henry 's dead an' will no come 
back!" 

" Did ye expect Mr. Green t' bring 'im? " 

" No." 

90 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

" What did ye expect, 'Liza ? " 

"I dunno." 

** Shure ye don't. Ye did n't expect 
aanything an' ye got jist what ye expected. 
Ah, wuman, God is n't a printed book t' 
be carried aroun' b' a man in fine clothes, 
nor a gold cross t' be danglin' at the watch 
chain ov a priest." 

'' What is he, Anna, yer wiser nor me ; 
tell a poor craither in throuble, do! " 

"If ye '11 lie very quiet, 'Liza — jist 
cross yer hands and listen — if ye do, I '11 
thry!" 

" Aye, bless ye, I '11 blirt no more ; go 
on!" 

*' Wee Henry is over there in his shroud, 
isn't he?" 

" Aye, God rest his soul." 

"He'll rest Henry's, 'Liza, but He'll 
haave the divil's own job wi' yours if ye 
don't help 'im." 

" Och, aye, thin I '11 be at pace." 
91 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" As I was sayin', Henry's body is jist 
as it was yesterday, ban's, legs, beart an' 
head, are n't tbey? " 

" Aye, 'cept cold an' stiff." 
"What's missin' then?" 
" His blessed soul, God love it." 
" That 's right. Now when the spirit 
laves th' body we say th' body 's dead, but 
it 's jist a partnership gone broke, wan goes 
up an' wan goes down. I 've always thot 
that kissin' a corpse was like kissin' a 
cage whin the bird 's dead — there 's noth- 
in" in it. Now answer me this, 'Liza 
Lecky: Is Henry a livin' spirit or a dead 
body?" 

" A livin' spirit, God prosper it." 
" Aye, an' God is th' same kind, but 
Henry's can be at but wan point at once, 
while God's is everywhere at once. He 's 
so big He can cover the world an' so small 
He can get in be a crack in th' glass or a 
kayhole." 

" I 've got four panes broke, Anna ! " 
92 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

'' Well, they 're jist like four doores." 

" Feeries can come in that way too/' 

" Aye, but feeries can't sew up a broken 
heart, acushla." 

"Where's Henry's soul, Anna?" Eliza 
asked, as if the said soul was a naavy over 
whom Anna stood as gaffer. 

" It may be here at yer bedhead now, but 
yer more in need of knowin' where God's 
Spirit is, 'Liza." 

Jamie entered with a cup of tea. 

*' For a throubled heart," he said, 
" there 's nothin' in this world like a rale 
good cup o' tay." 

" God bless ye kindly, Jamie, I 've a sore 
heart an' I 'm as dhry as a whistle." 

" Now Jamie, put th' cups down on th' 
bed," Anna said, '' an' then get out, like a 
good bhoy ! " 

" I want a crack wi' Anna, Jamie," 
Eliza said. 

"Well, ye '11 go farther an' fare worse 
— she 's a buffer at that ! " 
93 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Eliza sat up in bed while she drank the 
tea. When she drained her cup she handed 
it over to Anna. 

*' Toss it, Anna, maybe there 's good luck 
in it fur me." 

" No, dear, it 's a hoax at best; jist now 
it wud be pure blasphemy. Ye don't need 
luck, ye need at this minute th' help of 
God." 

" Och, aye, ye 're right; jist talk t' me 
ov Him." 

" I was talkin' about His Spirit when 
Jamie came in." 

" Aye." 

" It comes in as many ways as there 's 
need fur its comin', an' that 's quite a 
wheen." 

" God knows." 

" Ye '11 haave t' be calm, dear, before 
He 'd come t' ye in aany way." 

" Aye, but I 'm at pace now, Anna, am n't 
I?" 

" Well, now, get out here an' get down 

94 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

on th' floor on yer bare knees and haave 
a talk wi' 'im." 

Eliza obeyed implicitly. Anna knelt 
beside her. 

" I don't know what t' say." 

" Say afther me," and Anna told of an 
empty home and a sore heart. When she 
paused, Eliza groaned. 

'' Now tell 'im to lay 'is hand on yer 
tired head in token that He 's wi' ye in 
yer disthress ! " 

Even to a dull intellect like Eliza's the 
suggestion was startling. 

"Wud He do it, Anna?" 

" Well, jist ask 'im an' then wait an' 
see ! " 

In faltering tones Eliza made her request 
and waited. As gently as falls an autumn 
leaf Anna laid her hand on Eliza's head, 
held it there for a moment and removed 
it. 

" Oh, oh, oh, He 's done it, Anna, He 's 
done it, glory be t' God, He 's done it ! " 
95 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Rise up, dear," Anna said, " an' tell 
me about it." 

" There was a nice feelin' went down 
through me, Anna, an' th' han' was jist 
like yours ! " 

'' The han' was mine, but it was God's 
too." 

Anna wiped her spectacles and took Eliza 
over close to the window while she read 
a text of the Bible. '' Listen, dear," 
Anna said, " God's arm is not shortened." 

'' Did ye think that an arm could be 
stretched from beyont th' clouds t' Pogue's 
entry?" 

" Aye." 

" No, dear, but God takes a han' where 
ever He can find it and jist diz what 
He likes wi' it. Sometimes He takes a 
bishop's and lays it on a child's head in 
benediction, then He takes the han' of a 
dochter t' relieve pain, th' han' of a mother 
t' guide her chile, an' sometimes He takes 
th' han' of an aul craither like me t' give 

96 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

a bit comfort to a neighbor. But they 're 
all ban's touch't be His Spirit, an' His 
Spirit is everywhere lukin' fur ban's to 
use." 

Eliza looked at her open-mouthed for a 
moment. 

" Tell me, Anna," she said, as she put 
her hands on her shoulders, '' was th' ban' 
that bro't home trouts fur th' cbildtber 
God's ban' too?" 

" Aye, 'deed it was." 

" Oh, glory be t' God — thin I 'm at pace 
— is n't it gran' t' think on — is n't it 
now ? " 

Eliza Conlon abruptly terminated the 
conversation by announcing that all was 
ready for the wake. 

" Ah, but it 's the purty corpse he is," 
she said, " — luks jist like life!" The 
three women went over to the Lecky home. 
It was a one-room place. The big bed 
stood in the corner. The corpse was 
" laid out " with the hands clasped. 
97 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

The moment Eliza entered she rushed 
to the bed and fell on her knees beside it. 
She was quiet, however, and after a mo- 
ment's pause she raised her head and laying 
a hand on the folded hands said : '* Ah, 
ban's ov God t' be so cold an' still ! " 

Anna stood beside her until she thought 
she had stayed long enough, then led her 
gently away. From that moment Anna 
directed the wake and the funeral from her 
chimney-corner. 

** Here 's a basket ov flowers for Henry, 
Anna, the childther gethered thim th' day," 
Maggie McKinstry said as she laid them 
down on the hearthstones beside Anna. 

" Ye 've got some time, Maggie?" 

" Oh, aye." 

" Make a chain ov them an' let it go all 
th* way aroun' th' body, they '11 look purty 
that way, don't ye think so? " 

" Illigant, indeed, to be shure ! 'Deed 
I '11 do it." And it was done. 

To Eliza Conlon was given the task of 

98 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

providing refreshments. I say " task/' 
for after the carpenter was paid for the 
coffin and Jamie Scott for the hearse there 
was only six shilHngs left. 

** Get whey for th' childther," Anna said, 
and " childther " in this catalog ran up into 
the twenties. 

For the older " childther " there was 
something from Mrs. Lorimer's public 
house — something that was kept under 
cover and passed around late, and later 
still diluted and passed around again. 
Concerning this item Anna said : " Wather 
it wxll, dear, an' save their wits ; they 've 
got little enough now, God save us all ! " 

" Anna," said Sam Johnson, '' I am told 
you have charge of Henry's wake. Is 
there anything I can do ? " 

Sam was the tall, imperious precentor 
of the Mill Row meeting-house. He was 
also the chief baker of the town and 
" looked up to " in matters relating to 
morals as well as loaves. 
99 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Mister Gwynn has promised t' read a 
chapther, Mister Johnson. He '11 read, 
maybe, the fourteenth of John. If he diz, 
tell him t' go aisy over th' twelth verse an' 
explain that th' works He did can be done 
in Antrim by any poor craither who 's got 
th' Spirit." 

Sam straightened up to his full height 
and in measured words said: 

" Ye know, no doubt, Anna, that Mis- 
ther Gwynn is a Churchman an' I 'm a 
Presbyterian. He would n't take kindly 
to a hint from a Mill Row maan, I fear, 
especially on a disputed text." 

'' Well, dear knows if there 's aanything 
this oul world needs more than another it 's 
an undisputed text. Could n't ye find us 
wan, Misther Johnson ? " 

'' All texts are disputed," he said, " but 
there are texts not in dispute." 

" I think I could name wan at laste. 
Mister Johnson." 

" Maybe." 

lOO 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

" 'Deed no, not maybe at all, but sure- 
be. Jamie dear, get m' th' Bible if ye 
plaze." 

While Jamie got the Bible she wiped 
her glasses and complained in a gentle 
voice about the " mortal pity of it " that 
texts were pins for Christians to stick in 
each other's flesh. 

" Here it is," she said, " ' Th' poor ye 
haave always with ye.' " 

" Aye," Sam said, " an' how true it is." 

'' 'Deed it 's true, but who did He mane 
by ' ye ' ? " 

" Th' world, I suppose." 

" Not all th' world, by a spoonful, but a 
wheen of thim like Sandy Somerville, 
who 's got a signboard in front of his back 
that tells he ates too much while the rest 
of us haave backbones that could as aisily 
be felt before as behine!" 

" So that's what you call an undisputed 
text?" 

She looked over the rim of her spec- 

lOI 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

tacles at him for a moment in silence, and 
then said, slowly: 

'' Ochane — w-e-1-1 — tell Mister Gwynn 
t' read what he likes, it '11 mane th' same 
aanyway." 

Kitty Coyle came in. Henry and she 
were engaged. They had known each 
other since childhood. Her eyes w^ere red 
with weeping. Henry's mother led her by 
the arm. 

'' Anna, dear," Eliza said, '' she needs 
ye as much as me. Give 'er a bit ov 
comfort." 

They went into the little bedroom and 
the door was shut. Jamie stood as sentry. 

When they came out young Johnny 
Murdock, Henry's chum, was sitting on 
Jamie's workbench. 

" I want ye t' take good care of Kitty 
th' night, Johnny. Keep close t' 'er and 
when th' moon comes out take 'er down 
the garden t' get fresh air. It '11 be stuffy 
wi' all th' people an' the corpse in Lecky's." 

102 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

"Aye," he said, 'Til do all I can." 
To Kitty she said, ** I 've asked Johnny t' 
keep gey close t' ye till it 's all over, Kitty. 
Ye '11 understand." 

"Aye," Kitty said, "Henry loved 'im 
more 'n aany maan on th' Lough ! " 

"Had tay yit?" Willie Withero asked 
as he blundered in on the scene. 

" No, Willie, 'deed we haave n't thought 
ovit!" 

" Well, t' haave yer bowels think yer 
throat 's cut is n't sauncy ! " he said. 

The fire was low and the kettle cold. 

"Here, Johnny," Withero said, " jist 
run over t' Farren's for a ha'p'orth ov turf 
an' we '11 haave a cup o' tay fur these folks 
who 're workin' overtime palaverin' about 
th' dead! Moses alive, wan corpse is 
enough fur a week or two — don't kill us 
all entirely ! " 

Shortly after midnight Anna went over 
to see how^ things were at the wake. They 
told her of the singing of the children, of 
103 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

the beautiful chapther by Misther Gwynn, 
and the " feelin' " by Graham Shannon. 
The whey was sufficient and nearly every- 
body had '' a dhrap o' th' craither " and 
a bite of fadge. 

" Ah, Anna dear/' Eliza said, " shure 
it 's yerself that knows how t' make a moi'ty 
go th' longest distance over dhry throats 
an' empty stomachs! 'Deed it was a re- 
vival an' a faste in wan, an' th' only pity 
is that poor Henry cud n't enjoy it! " 

The candles were burned low in the 
sconces, the flowers around the corpse had 
faded, a few tongues, loosened by stimu- 
lation, were still wagging, but the laughter 
had died down and the stories were all 
told. There had been a hair-raising ghost 
story that had sent a dozen home before 
the respectable time of departure. The 
empty stools had been carried outside and 
were largely occupied by lovers. 

Anna drew Eliza's head to her breast 
and pressing it gently to her said, '' I 'm 
104 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

proud of ye, dear, ye 've borne up bravely! 
Now I 'm goin' t' haave a few winks in 
th' corner, for there '11 be much to do th' 
morra." 

Scarcely had the words died on her lips 
when Kitty Coyle gave vent to a scream 
of terror that brought the mourners to the 
door and terrified those outside. 

'* What ails ye, in th' name of God?" 
Anna asked. She was too terrified to 
speak at once. The mourners crowded 
closely together. 

"Watch!" Kitty said as she pointed 
with her finger toward Conlon's pigsty. 
Johnny Murdock had his arm around 
Kitty's waist to keep her steady and as- 
sure her of protection. They watched and 
waited. It was a bright moonlight night, 
and save for the deep shadows of the 
houses and hedges as clear as day. 
Tensely nerve-strung, open-mouthed and 
wild-eyed stood the group for what seemed 
to them hours. In a few minutes a white 

105 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

figure was seen emerging from the pigsty. 
The watchers were transfixed in terror. 
Most of them clutched at each other nerv- 
ously. Old Mrs. Houston, the midwife 
who had told the ghost story at the wake, 
dropped in a heap. Peter Hannen and 
Jamie Wilson carried her indoors. 

The white figure stood on the pathway 
leading through the gardens for a moment 
and then returned to the sty. Most of 
the watchers fled to their homes. Some 
did n't move because they had lost the 
power to do so. Others just stood. 

*' It 's a hoax an' a joke," Anna said. 
" Now wan of you men go down there an' 
see! " 

No one moved. Every eye was fixed on 
the pigsty. A long-drawn-out, mournful 
cry was heard. It was all that tradition 
had described as the cry of the Banshee. 

" The Banshee it is ! Ah, merciful God, 
which ov us is t' b' tuk, I wondther?" It 
was Eliza who spoke, and she continued, 
io6 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

directing her talk to Anna, " An' it 's th' 
long arm ov th' Almighty it is raychin' 
down t' give us a warnin', don't ye think 
so now, Anna? " 

'* If it 's wan arm of God, I know where 
th' other is, 'Liza ! " Addressing the ter- 
ror-stricken watchers, Anna said : 

''Stand here, don't budge, wan of ye!" 
Along the sides of the houses in the deep 
shadow Anna walked until she got to the 
end of the row; just around the corner 
stood the sty. In the shadow she stood 
W'ith her back to the wall and waited. The 
watchers were breathless and what they 
saw a minute later gave them a syncope 
of the heart that they never forgot. They 
saw the white figure emerge again and 
they saw Anna stealthily approach and 
enter into what they thought was a struggle 
with it. They gasped when they saw her 
a moment later bring the white figure along 
with her. As she came nearer it looked 
limp and pliable, for it hung over her arm. 
107 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"It's that divil, Ben Green!" she said 
as she threw a white sheet at their feet. 

'* Hell roast 'im on a brandther!" said 
one. 

** The divil gut 'im like a herrin' ! " said 
another. Four of the younger men, 
having been shamed by their own cow- 
ardice, made a raid on the sty, and next 
day when Ben came to the funeral he 
looked very much the worse for wear. 

Ben was a friend of Henry's and a good 
deal of a practical joker. Anna heard of 
what happened and she directed that he be 
one of the four men to lower the coffin 
into the grave, as a moiety of consolation. 
Johnny Murdock made strenuous objec- 
tions to this. 

"Why?" Anna asked. 

" Bekase," he said, " shure th' divil 
nearly kilt Kitty be th' fright!" 

" But she was purty comfortable th' 
rest of th' time?" 

" Oh, aye." 

io8 



HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 

'* Ye lifted a gey big burden from 'er 
heart last night, didn't ye, Johnny?" 

" Aye; an' if ye won't let on I '11 tell ye, 
Anna." He came close and whispered into 
her ear : " Am goin' t' thry danged hard 
t' take th' heart as well as th' throuble ! " 

"What diz Kitty think?" 

" She 's switherin'." 



109 




CHAPTER VI 
THE APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

NNA was an epistle to 
Pogue's entry and my only 
excuse for dragging Hughie 
Thornton into this narra- 
tive is that he was a 
commentary on Anna. He was only once 
in our house, but that was an " occasion," 
and for many years we dated things that 
happened about that time as " about," 
" before " or " after " " the night Hughie 
stayed in the pigsty." 

We lived in the social cellar; Hughie led 
a precarious existence in the sub-cellar. 
He was the beggar-man of several 
towns, of which Antrim was the largest. 
He was a short, thick-set man with a pock- 
marked face, eyes like a mouse, eyebrows 
IIO 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

that looked like well-worn scrubbing 
brushes, and a beard cropped close with scis- 
sors or a knife. He wore two coats, two 
pairs of trousers and several waistcoats — 
all at the same time, winter and summer. 
His old battered hat looked like a crow's 
nest. His wardrobe was so elaborately 
patched that practically nothing at all of the 
originals remained ; even then patches of his 
old, withered skin could be seen at various 
angles. The thing that attracted my atten- 
tion more than anything else about him was 
his pockets. He had dozens of them and 
they were always full of bread crusts, scraps 
of meat and cooking utensils, for like a 
snail he carried his domicile on his back. 
His boots looked as if a blacksmith had 
made them, and for whangs (laces) he 
used strong wire. 

He was preeminently a citizen of the 

world. He had not lived in a house in 

half a century. A haystack in summer 

and a pigsty in winter sufficed him. He 

III 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

had a deep graphophone voice and when 
he spoke the sound was Hke the creaking 
of a barn door on rusty hinges. When he 
came to town he was to us what a circus 
is to boys of more highly favored commun- 
ities. There were several interpretations 
of Hughie. One was that he was a " sent 
back." That is, he had gone to the gates 
of a less cumbersome life and Peter or the 
porter at the other gate had sent him back 
to perform some unfulfilled task. Another 
was that he was a nobleman of an ancient 
line who was wandering over the earth in 
disguise in search of the Grail. A third, 
and the most popular one, was that he was 
just a common beggar and an unmitigated 
liar. The second interpretation was made 
more plausible by the fact that he rather 
enjoyed his reputation as a liar, for wise 
ones said: "He's jist lettin' on." 

On one of his semi-annual visits to 
Antrim, Hughie got into a barrel of trouble. 
He was charged — rumor charged him — 

112 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

with having bhnked a widow's cow. It 
was noised abroad that he had been caught 
in the act of " skellyin' " at her. The story 
gathered in volume as it went from mouth 
to mouth until it crystallized as a crime in 
the minds of half a dozen of our toughest 
citizens — boys who hankered for excite- 
ment as a hungry stomach hankers for 
food. He was finally rounded up in a 
field adjoining the Mill Row meeting- 
house and pelted with stones. I was 
of the " gallery " that watched the fun. 
I watched until a track of blood streaked 
down Hughie's pock-marked face. Then 
I ran home and told Anna. 

"Ma!" I yelled breathlessly, "they're 
killin' Hughie Thornton ! " 

Jamie threw his work down and accom- 
panied Anna over the little garden patches 
to the wall that protected the field. 
Through the gap they went and found poor 
Hughie in bad shape. He was crying and 
he cried like a brass band. His head and 
113 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

face had been cut in several places and his 
face and clothes were red. 

They brought him home. A crowd fol- 
lowed and filled Pogue's entry, a crowd 
that was about equally divided in sentiment 
against Hughie and against the toughs. 

I borrowed a can of water from Mrs. 
McGrath and another from the Gainers and 
Anna washed old Hughie's wounds in 
Jamie's tub. It was a great operation. 
Hughie of course refused to divest him- 
self of any clothing, and as she said after- 
wards it was like '' dhressin' th' woonds of 
a haystack." 

One of my older brothers came home 
and cleared the entry, and we sat down to 
our stir-about and buttermilk. An extra 
cup of good hot strong tea was the finishing 
touch to the Samaritan act. Jamie had 
scant sympathy with the beggar-man. He 
had always called him hard names in lan- 
guage not lawful to utter, and even in 
this critical exigency was not over tender. 
114 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

Anna saw a human need and tried to sup- 
ply it. 

" Did ye blink th' cow ? " Jamie asked 
as we sat around the candle after supper. 

" Divil a blink," said Hughie. 

" What did th' raise a hue-an'-cry fur ? " 
was the next question. 

" I was fixin' m' galluses, over Craw- 
ford's hedge, whin a gomeral luked over 
an' says, says he: 

"'Morra, Hughie!' 

" * Morra, bhoy ! ' says I. 

"*Luks like snow,' says he (it was in 

July). 

*' ' Aye,' says I, ' we 're goin' t' haave 
more weather ; th' sky 's in a bad art ' " 
(direction). 

Anna arose, put her little Sunday shawl 
around her shoulders, tightened the strings 
of her cap under her chin and went out. 
We gasped with astonishment! What on 
earth could she be going out for? She 
never went out at night. Everybody came 

115 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

to her. There was something so myste- 
rious in that sudden exit that we just looked 
at our guest without understanding a word 
he said. 

Jamie opened up another Hne of inquiry. 

'' Th' say yer a terrible liar, Hughie." 

" I am that/' Hughie said without the 
slightest hesitation. '' I 'm th' champ'yun 
liar ov County Anthrim." 

"How did ye get th' belt?" 

" Aisy, as aisy as tellin' th' thruth.'* 

" That 's harder nor ye think." 

" So 's lyin', Jamie! " 

*' Tell us how ye won th' champ'yunship." 

" Whin I finish this dhraw." 

He took a live coal and stoked up the 
bowl of his old cutty-pipe. The smacking 
of his lips could have been heard at the 
mouth of Pogue's entry. We waited with 
breathless interest. When he had finished 
he knocked the ashes out on the toe of his 
brogue and talked for nearly an hour of 
ii6 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

the great event in which he covered himself 
with glory. 

It was a fierce encounter according to 
Hughie, the then champion being a Bally- 
mena man by the name of Jack Rooney. 
Jack and a bunch of vagabonds sat on a 
stone pile near Ballyclare when Hughie 
hove in sight. The beggar-man was at 
once challenged to divest himself of half his 
clothes or enter the contest. He entered, 
with the result that Ballymena lost the 
championship! The concluding round as 
Hughie recited it was as follows: 

" I dhruv a nail throo th' moon wanst," 
said Jack. 

" Ye did, did ye,'^ said Hughie, *' but did 
ye iver hear ov the maan that climbed up 
over th' clouds wid a hammer in his han' 
an' clinched it on th' other side ? " 

" No," said the champion. 

"I'm him!" said Hughie. 

**I'm bate!" said Jack Rooney, *' an' 
117 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

begobs if I wor St. Peether I 'd kape ye 
outside th' gate till ye tuk it out agin!" 

Anna returned with a blanket rolled up 
under her arm. She gave Hughie his 
choice between sleeping in Jamie's corner 
among the lasts or occupying the pigsty. 
He chose the pigsty, but before he retired 
I begged Anna to ask him about the 
Banshee. 

" Did ye ever really see a Banshee, 
Hughie? " 

" Is there aanythin' a champ'yun liar 
haas n't seen ? " Jamie interrupted. 

" Aye," Hughie said, " 'deed there is, he 
niver seen a maan who 'd believe 'im even 
whin he was tellin' th' thruth ! " 

*' That 's broth for your noggin', Jamie," 
Anna said. Encouraged by Anna, Hughie 
came back with a thrust that increased 
Jamie's sympathy for him. 

" I 'm undther yer roof an' beholdin' t' 
yer kindness, but I 'd like t' ax ye a civil 
quest'yun if I may be so bowld." 
ii8 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

" Aye, go on." 

" Did ye blow a farmer's brains out in 
th' famine fur a pint ov milk ? " 

** It 's a lie!" Jamie said, indignantly. 

" Well, me bhoy, there must b' quite a 
wheen, thrainin' fur me belt in Anthrim ! " 

" There 's something in that, Hughie ! " 

** Aye, somethin' Hughie Thornton did n't 
put in it ! " 

We youngsters were irritated and im- 
patient over what seemed to us useless 
palaver about minor details. We wanted 
the story and wanted it at once, for we 
understood that Hughie went to bed with 
the crows and we stood in terror lest this 
huge bundle of pockets with its unearthly 
voice should vanish into thin air. 

"D'ye know McShane?" he asked. 

" Aye, middlin'." 

" Ax 'im what Hughie Thornton towld 
'im wan night be th' hour ov midnight an' 
afther. Ax 'im, I say, an' he '11 swear be 
th' Holy Virgin an' St. Peether t' it!" 
119 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Jist tell us aanyway, Hughie," Anna 
urged and the beggar-man proceeded. 

" I was be th' oul Quaker graveyard be 
Moylena wan night whin th' shadows fell 
an' bein' more tired than most I slipt in 
an' lay down be th' big wall t' slape. I 
cros't m'self seven times an' says I — ' God 
rest th' sowls ov all here, an' God prosper 
th' sowl ov Hughie Thornton.' I wint t' 
slape an' slept th' slape ov th' just till 
twelve be th' clock. I was shuk out ov 
slape be a screech that waked th' dead! 

" Och, be th' powers, Jamie, me hair stud 
like th' brisels on O'Hara's hog. I lukt 
and what m' eyes lukt upon froze me blood 
like icicles hingin' frum th' thatch. It was 
a woman in a white shift, young an' beau- 
tiful^ wid hair stramin' down her back. 
She sat on th' wall wid her head in her ban's 
keenin' an' moanin' : ' Ochone, ochone ! ' 
I thried to spake but m' tongue cluv t' th* 
roof ov m' mouth. I thried t' move a 
han' but it wud n't budge. M' legs an' 

120 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

feet wor as stiff and shtrait as th' legs ov 
thim tongs in yer chimley. Och, but it 's 
th' prackus I was frum top t' toe! Dead 
intirely was I but fur th' eyes an' th' wit 
behint thim. She ariz an' walked up an' 
down, back an' fort', up an' down, back 
an' fort', keenin' an' cryin' an' wringin' her 
ban's ! Maan alive, did n't she carry on 
terrible! Purty soon wid a yell she lept 
into the graveyard, thin she lept on th' wall, 
thin I heerd her on th' road, keenin' ; an' 
iverywhere she wint wor long bars of light 
like sunbames streamin' throo th' holes in 
a barn. Th' keenin' become waker an' 
waker till it died down like the cheep ov 
a willy-wag-tail far off be the ind ov th' 
road. 

" I got up an' ran like a red shank t' 
McShane's house. I dundthered at his 
doore till he opened it, thin I towld him I 'd 
seen th' Banshee! 

" * That bates Bannagher ! ' says he. 

"'It bates th' divil,' says L 'But 

121 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

whose fur above th' night is what I 'd like 
t' know.' 

" 'Oul Misther Chaine,' says he, ' as sure 
as gun 's iron ! ' " 

The narrative stopped abruptly, stopped 
at McShane's door. 

" Did oul Misther Chaine die that 
night ? " Anna asked. 

'' Ax McShane ! " was all the answer he 
gave and we were sent off to bed. 

Hughie was escorted to the pigsty with 
his blanket and candle. What Jamie saw 
on the way to the pigsty made the per- 
spiration stand in big beads on his furrowed 
brow. Silhouetted against the sky were 
several figures. Some were within a dozen 
yards, others were farther away. Two 
sat on a low wall that divided the Adair 
and Mulholland gardens. They were si- 
lent and motionless, but there was no mis- 
take about it. He directed Anna's attention 
to them and she made light of it. When 
they returned to the house Jamie expressed 

122 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

fear for the life of the beggar-man. Anna 
whispered something into his ear, for she 
knew that we were wide-awake. They 
went into their room conversing in an 
undertone. 

The thing was so uncanny to me that it 
was three o'clock next morning before I 
went to sleep. As early as six there was 
an unusual shuffling and clattering of feet 
over the cobblestones in Pogue's entry. 
We knew everybody in the entry by the 
sound of their footfall. The clatter was 
by the feet of strangers. 

I " dunched " my brother, who lay beside 
me, with my elbow. 

''Go an' see if oul Hughie 's livin' or 
dead," I said. 

"Ye cud n't kill 'im," he said. 

" How d 'ye know? " 

" I heerd a quare story about 'im last 
night!" 

"Where?" 

" In th' barber's shop." 
123 



MY T.ADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"Is he a feerie?" 

" No." 

"What is he?" 

" Close yer thrap an' lie still ! " 

Somebody opened the door and walked in. 

I slid into my clothes and climbed down. 
It was Withero. He shook Anna and 
Jamie in their bed and asked in a loud 
voice : 

" What 's all this palaver about an' oul 
throllop what niver earned salt t' 'is 
pirtas?" 

" Go on t' yer stone pile, WilHe," Anna 
said, as she sat up in bed ; " what ye don't 
know will save docther's bills." 

" If I catch m'self thinkin' aanythin' 
sauncy ov that aul haythen baste I '11 change 
m' name ! " he said, as he turned and left 
in high dudgeon. 

When I got to the pigsty there were 

several early callers lounging around. 

'' Jowler " Hainey sat on a big stone near 

the slit. Mary McConnaughy stood with 

124 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

her arms akimbo, within a yard of the door, 
and Tommy Wilson was peeping into the 
sty through a knot-hole on the side. I took 
my turn at the hole. Hughie had evidently 
been awakened early. He was sitting ar- 
ranging his pockets. Con Mulholland 
came down the entry with his gun over 
his shoulder. He had just returned from 
his vigil as night watchman at the Greens 
and was going the longest way around to 
his home. 

He leaned his gun against the house side 
and lit his pipe. Then he opened the sty 
door, softly, and said: 

"Morra, Hughie." 

" Morra, Con," came the answer, in 
calliope tones from our guest. 

" Haave ye a good stock ov tubacca?" 
Con asked Hughie. 

" I cud shtart a pipe shap. Con, fur be 
th' first strake ov dawn I found five new 
pipes an' five half ounces ov tubacca inside 
th' doore ov th' sty!" 
125 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Take this bit too. Avic, ye don't come 
ofen," and he gave him a small package 
and took his departure. 

Eliza Conlon brought a cup of tea. 
Without even looking in, she pushed the 
little door ajar, laid it just inside, and went 
away without a word. Mulholland and 
Hainey seemed supremely concerned about 
the weather. From all they said it was 
quite evident that each of them had "jist 
dhrapped aroun' t' find out what Jamie 
thought ov th' prospects fur a fine day ! " 
Old Sandy Somerville came hatless and in 
his shirt-sleeves, his hands deep in his pock- 
ets and his big watchchain dangling across 
what Anna called the '* front of his back." 
Sandy was some quality, too, and owned 
three houses. 

" Did aany o' ye see my big orange cat? *' 
he asked the callers. Without waiting for 
an answer he opened the door of the pigsty 
and peeped in. 

By the time Hughie scrambled out there 
126 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

were a dozen men, women and boys around 
the sty. As the beggar-man struggled up 
through his freight to his feet the eyes of 
the crowd were scrutinizing him. Sandy 
shook hands with him and wished him a 
pleasant journey. 

Hainey hoped he would live long and 
prosper. As he expressed the hope he fur- 
tively stuffed into one of Hughie's pockets 
a small package. 

Anna came out and led Hughie into 
the house for breakfast. The little crowd 
moved toward the door. On the doorstep 
she turned around and said : '' Hughie 's 
goin' t' haave a cup an' a slice an' go. Ye 
can all see him in a few minutes. Excuse 
me if I shut the doore, but Jamie 's givin' 
the thrush its mornin' bath an' it might 
fly out." 

She gently closed the door and we were 
again alone with the guest. 

'' The luck ov God is m' portion here," 
he said, looking at Anna. 
127 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Nothing was more evident. His pock- 
ets were taxed to their full capacity and 
those who gathered around the table that 
morning wished that the " luck of God " 
would spread a little. 

'' Th' feeries must haave been t' see ye," 
Jamie said, eyeing his pockets. 

" Aye, gey sauncy feeries, too ! " 

" Did ye see aany, Hughie? " Anna asked. 

" No, but I had a wondtherful dhrame." 
The announcement was a disappointment 
to us. We had dreams of our own and to 
have right at our fireside the one man 
in all the world who saw things and get 
merely a dream from him was, to say the 
least, discouraging. 

*' I thocht I heer'd th' rat, tap ; rat, tap, 
ov th' Lepracaun — th' f eerie shoemaker. 

" * Is that th' Lepracaun? ' says I. ' If it 
is I want m' three wishes.' * Get thim out,' 
says he, *fur I 'm gey busy th' night.' 

" * Soun' slape th' night an' safe journey 
th' morra/ says I. 

128 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

" ' Get yer third out or I 'm gone/ says 
he. 

" I scratched m' head an' swithered, but 
divil a third cud I think ov. Jist as he 
was goin', ' Oh/ says I, ' I want a pig fur 
this sty ! ' 

" ' Ye '11 git him ! ' says he, an' off he 
wint" 

Here was something, after all, that gave 
us more excitement than a Banshee story. 
We had a sty. We had hoped for years 
for a pig. We had been forced often to 
use some of the sty for fuel, but in good 
times Jamie had always replaced the 
boards. This was a real vision and we 
were satisfied. Jamie's faith in Hughie 
soared high at the time, but a few months 
later it fell to zero. Anna with a twinkle 
in her eye would remind us of Hughie's 
prophecy. One day he wiped the vision 
off the slate. 

"T' h — 1 wi' Hughie!" he said. 
" Some night he '11 come back an' slape 
129 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

there, thin we '11 haave a pig in th' sty 
shure!" 

As he left our house that morning he was 
greeted in a most unusual manner by a 
score of people who crowded the entry. 
Men and women gathered around him. 
They inspected the wounds. They gave 
their blessing in as many varieties as there 
were people present. The new attitude 
toward the beggar baffled us. Generally 
he was considered a good deal of a nuisance 
and something of a fraud, but that morning 
he was looked upon as a saint — as one in- 
spired, as one capable of bestowing bene- 
dictions on the young and giving " luck " 
to the old. Out of their penury and want 
they brought gifts of food, tobacco, cloth 
for patches and needles and thread. He 
was overwhelmed and over-burdened, and 
as his mission of gathering food for a few 
weeks was accomplished, he made for the 
town head when he left the entry. 

The small crowd grew into a big one 
130 



APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 

and he was the center of a throng as he 
made his way north. When he reached 
the town well, Maggie McKinstry had 
several small children in waiting and 
Hughie was asked to give them a blessing. 
It was a new atmosphere to him, but he 
bungled through it. The more unintelli- 
gible his jabbering, the more assured were 
the recipients of his power to bless. One 
of the boys who stoned him was brought 
by his father to ask forgiveness. 

*' God save ye kindly,'' Hughie said to 
him. '' Th' woonds ye made haave been 
turned into blessin's galore!" He came 
in despised. He went out a saint. 

It proved to be Hughie's last visit to 
Antrim. His going out of life was a mys- 
tery, and as the years went by tradition 
accorded him an exit not unlike that of 
Moses. I w^as amongst those the current 
of whose lives were supposed to have been 
changed by the touch of his hand on that 
last visit. Anna alone knew the secret of 
131 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

his alleged sainthood. She was the author 
and publisher of it. That night when she 
left us with Hughie she gathered together 
in 'Liza Conlon's a few " hand-picked " 
people whose minds were as an open book 
to her. She told them that the beggar- 
man was of an ancient line, wandering the 
earth in search of the Holy Grail, but that 
as he wandered he was recording in a secret 
book the deeds of the poor. She knew 
exactly how the news w^ould travel and 
where. One superstition stoned him and 
another canonized him. 

'' Dear," she said to me, many, many 
years afterwards. " A good thought will 
thravel as fast an' as far as a bad wan if 
it gets th' right start!" 



132 



CHAPTER VII 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 




T 'S a quare world/' Jamie 
said one night as we sat in 
the glow of a peat fire. 

" Aye, 'deed yer right, 
Jamie," Anna replied as 
she gazed into the smokeless flames. 

He took his short black pipe out of his 
mouth, spat into the burning sods and 
added : " I wondther if it 's as quare t' 
everybody, Anna?" 

" Ochane," she replied, " it 's quare t' 
poor craithers who haave naither mate, 
money nor marbles, nor chalk t' make th' 
ring." 

There had been but one job that day — 
a pair of McGuckin's boots. They had been 
half-soled and heeled and my sister had 

^33 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

taken them home, with orders what to bring 
home for supper. 

The last handful of peat had been put on 
the fire. The cobbler's bench had been put 
aside for the night and we gathered closely 
around the hearth. 

The town clock struck eight. 

"What th' h — I's kapin' th' hussy!" 
Jamie said petulantly. 

" Hugh 's at a Fenian meeting more 'n 
likely an' it 's worth a black eye for th' 
wife t' handle money when he 's gone," 
Anna suggested. 

" More likely he 's sleepin' off a dhrunk," 
he said. 

" No, Jamie, he laves that t' the craithers 
who give 'im a livin'." 

" Yer no judge o' human naiture, Anna. 
A squint out o' th' tail o' yer eye at what 
McGuckin carries in front ov 'im wud tell 
ye betther if ye had th' wits to obsarve." 

Over the fire hung a pot on the chain and 
close to the turf coals sat the kettle singing. 
134 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 

Nothing of that far-off Hfe has left a more 
lasting impression than the singing of the 
kettle. It sang a dirge that night, but it 
usually sang of hope. It was ever the har- 
binger of the thing that was most indis- 
pensable in that home of want — a cup of 
tea. Often it was tea without milk, some- 
times without sugar, but always tea. If it 
came to a choice between tea and bread, we 
went without bread. 

Anna did not relish the reflection on her 
judgment and remained silent. 

There was a loud noise at the door. 

" Jazus ! " Jamie exclaimed, " it 's 
snowin'." Some one was kicking the snow 
off against the door-post. The latch was 
lifted and in walked Felix Boyle the 
bogman. 

" What th' blazes are ye in th' dark fur? " 
Felix asked in a deep, hoarse voice. His 
old rabbit-skin cap was pulled down over 
his ears, his head and shoulders were 
covered with snow. As he shook it off we 
135 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

shivered. We were in debt to Felix for a 
load of turf and we suspected he had called 
for the money. Anna lit the candle she 
was saving for supper-time. The bogman 
threw his cap and overcoat over in the cor- 
ner on the lasts and sat down. 

" I 'm frozen f death ! " he said as he 
proceeded to take off his brogues. As he 
came up close to the coals, we were smitten 
with his foul breath and in consequence 
gave him a wider berth. He had been 
drinking. 

''Where's th' mare?" Anna asked. 

" Gone home, th' bitch o' h — 1," he said, 
" an' she 's got m' load o' turf wid 'er, 
bad cess t' 'er dhirty sowl ! " 

The town clock struck nine. 

Felix removed his socks, pushed his stool 
aside and sat down on the mud floor. A 
few minutes later he was flat on his back, 
fast asleep and snoring loudly. 

The fire grew smaller. Anna husbanded 
the diminishing embers by keeping them 
136 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 

closely together with the long tongs. The 
wind howled and screamed. The window 
rattled, the door creaked on its hinges and 
every few minutes a gust of wind came 
down the chimney and blew the ashes into 
our faces. We huddled nearer the fire. 

'* Can't ye fix up that oul craither's head 
a bit?" Jamie asked. I brought over the 
bogman's coat. Anna made a pillow of 
it and placed it under his head. He 
turned over on his side. As he did so a 
handful of small change rolled out of his 
pocket. 

" Think of that now," Jamie said as he 
gathered it up and stuffed it back where it 
belonged, " an oul dhrunken turf dhriver 
wi' money t' waste while we 're starvin'." 

From that moment we were acutely 
hungry. 

This new incident rendered the condition 
poignant. 

" Maybe Mrs. Boyle an' th' wains are as 
hungry as we are," Anna remarked. 

^2>7 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Wi' a bogful o' turf at th' doore? " 

" Th' can't eat turf, Jamie!" 

'' Th' can warm their shins, that's 
more 'n we can do, in a minute or two." 

The rapidly diminishing coals were ar- 
ranged once more. They were a mere 
handful now and the house was cold. 

There were two big holes in the chimney 
where Jamie kept old pipes, pipe cleaners, 
bits of rags and scraps of tobacco. He 
liked to hide a scrap or two there and in 
times of scarcity make himself believe he 
found them. His last puff of smoke had 
gone up the chimney hours ago. He 
searched both holes without success. A 
bright idea struck him. He searched for 
Boyle's pipe. He searched in vain. 

"Holy Moses!" he exclaimed, "what a 
breath; a pint ov that wud make a mule 
dhrunk!" 

" Thry it, Jamie," Anna said, laughing. 

" Thry it yerself, — yer a good dale more 
ov a judge ! " he said snappishly. 
' 138 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 

A wild gust of wind came down the 
chimney and blew the loose ashes off the 
hearth. Jamie ensconced himself in his 
corner — a picture of despair. 

" I wondther if Billy O'Hare 's in bed? " 
he said. 

" Ye 'd need fumigatin' afther smokin' 
Billy's tobacco, Jamie ! " 

" I'd smoke tobacco scraped out o' the 
breeches-pocket ov th' oul divil in hell ! " 
he replied. 

He arose, put on his muffler and made 
ready to visit the sweep. On the way to 
the door another idea turned him back. He 
put on the bogman's overcoat and rabbit- 
skin cap. Anna, divining his intention, 
said: 

" That 's th' first sign of sense I 've see 
in you for a month of Sundays." 

" Ye cud n't see it in a month ov Easther 
Sundays, aanyway," he retorted with a 
superior toss of his head. 

Anna kept up a rapid fire of witty re- 
139 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

marks. She injected humor into the situ- 
ation and laughed like a girl, and although 
she felt the pangs more keenly than any 
of us, her laughter was genuine and natu- 
ral. 

Jamie had his empty pipe in his mouth 
and by force of habit he picked up in the 
tongs a little bit of live coal to light it. 
We all tittered. 

" Th' h — 1 ! " he muttered, as he made 
for the door. Before he reached it my sis- 
ter walked in. McGuckin was n't at home. 
His wife couldn't pay. We saw the whole 
story on her face, every pang of it. 
Her eyes were red and swollen. Before 
she got out a sentence of the tale of woe, 
she noticed the old man in Boyle's clothing 
and burst out laughing. So hearty and 
boisterous was it that we all again caught 
the contagion and laughed with her. Sor- 
row was deep-seated. It had its roots 
away down at the bottom of things, but 
laughter was always up near the surface 
140 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 

and could be tapped on the slightest provo- 
cation. It was a by-valve — a way of 
escape for the overflow. There were 
times when sorrow was too deep for tears. 
But there never was a time when we 
could n't laugh ! 

People in our town who expected visitors 
to knock provided a knocker. The knocker 
was a distinct line of social demarcation. 
We lived below the line. The minister 
and the tract distributor were the only 
persons who ever knocked at our door. 

Scarcely had our laughter died away 
when the door opened and there entered 
in the sweep of a blizzard's tail Billy 
O'Hare. The gust of cold winter wind 
made us shiver again and we. drew up closer 
to the dying fire — so small now as to be 
seen with difficulty. 

" Be th' seven crosses ov Arbow, Jamie," 
he said, " I 'm glad yer awake, me bhoy, if 
ye had n't I 'd haave pulled ye out be th' 
tail ov yer shirt ! " 

141 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

*' I was jist within an ace ov goin' over 
an' pullin' ye out be th' heels myself." 

The chimney-sweep stepped forward 
and, tapping Jamie on the forehead, said: 

" Two great minds workin' on th' same 
thought shud projuce wondtherful results, 
Jamie ; lend me a chew ov tobacco ! " 

" Ye 've had larks for supper, Billy ; yer 
jokin' ! " Jamie said. 

"Larks be damned," Billy said, " m' 
tongue 's stickin' t' th' roof ov me mouth ! " 

Again we laughed, while the two men 
stood looking at each other — speechless. 

" Ye can do switherin' as easy sittin' as 
standin'," Anna said, and Billy sat down. 
The bogman's story was repeated in 
minutest detail. The sweep scratched his 
sooty head and looked wise. 

*' It 's gone ! " Anna said quietly, and we 
all looked toward the fire. It was dead. 
The last spark had been extinguished. We 
shivered. 

" We don't need so many stools aany- 
142 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 

way/' Jamie said. " I '11 get a hatchet an' 
we '11 haave a fire in no time." 

" T' be freezin' t' death wi a bogman 
goin' t' waste is unchristian, t' say th' 
laste," Billy ventured. 

" Every time we get to th' end of th' 
tether God appears ! " Anna said reassur- 
ingly, as she pinned her shawl closer 
around her neck. 

" There 's nothin' but empty bowels and 
empty pipes in our house," the sweep said, 
" but we 've got half a dozen good turf 
left!" 

" Well, it 's a long lane that 's got no 
turnin' — ye might lend us thim," Jamie 
suggested. 

*' If ye '11 excuse m' fur a minit, I '11 
warm this house, an' may the Virgin choke 
m' in th' nixt chimley I sweep if I don't! " 

In a few minutes he returned with six 
black turf. The fire was rebuilt and we 
basked in its warm white glow. The bog- 
man snored on. Billy inquired about the 
143 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

amount of his change. Then he became 
soHcitous about his comfort on the floor. 
Each suggestion was a furtive flank move- 
ment on Boyle's loose change. 

Anna saw the bent of his mind and tried 
to divert his attention. 

" Did ye ever hear, Billy," she said, 
" that if we stand a dhrunk maan on his 
head it sobers him ? " 

" Be the powers, no.'* 

" They say," she said with a twinkle in 
her eyes, " that it empties him of his 
contents." 

" Aye," sighed the sweep, " there's some- 
thing in that, Anna; let 's thry it on Boyle." 

There was an element of excitement in 
the suggestion and we youngsters hoped 
it would be carried out. Billy made a move 
to suit the action to the thought, but Anna 
pushed him gently back. '' Jamie's mouth 
is as wathry as yours, Billy, but we '11 take 
no short cuts, we '11 go th' long way 
around." 

144 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 

That seemed a death-blow to hope. My 
sisters began to whimper and sniffle. We 
had many devices for diverting hunger. 
The one always used as a last resort was 
the stories of the " great famine." We 
were particularly helped by one about a 
family half of whom died around a pot of 
stir-about that had come too late. When 
we heard Jamie say, " Things are purty 
bad, but they 're not as bad as they might 
be," we knew a famine story was on the 
way. 

*' Hould yer horses there a minute ! " 
Billy O'Hare broke in. He took the step- 
ladder and before we knew what he was 
about he had taken a bunch of dried rose- 
mary from the roof -beams and was rub- 
bing it in his hands as a substitute for 
tobacco. 

After rubbing it between his hands he 
filled his pipe and began to puff vigorously. 

*' Wud ye luk at 'im! " Jamie exclaimed. 

*' I 've lived with th' mother ov invintion 
145 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

since I was th' size ov a mushroom," he 
said between the puffs, " an begorra she 's 
betther nor a wife." The odor filled the 
house. It was like the sweet incense of a 
censer. The men laughed and joked over 
the discovery. The sweep indulged him- 
self in some extravagant, self-laudatory 
statements, one of which became a house- 
hold word with us. 

" Jamie," he said as he removed his pipe 
and looked seriously at my father, " who 
was that poltroon that discovered tobac- 
co?" Anna informed him. 

" What '11 become ov 'im whin compared 
wid O'Hare, th' inventor of th' rosemary 
delection? I ax ye, Jamie, bekase ye 're 
an honest maan." 

" Heaven knows, Billy." 

" Aye, heaven only knows, fur I '11 hand 
down t' m' future ancestors the O'Hara 
brand ov rosemary tobacco ! " 

" Wondtherful, wondtherful! " Jamie 
said, in mock solemnity. 
146 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 

" Aye, t' think," Anna said, " that ye in- 
vinted it in our house ! " 

We forgot our hunger pangs in the 
excitement. Jamie filled his pipe and the 
two men smoked for a few minutes. Then 
a fly appeared in the precious ointment. 
My father took his pipe out of his mouth 
and looked inquisitively at Billy. 

" M' head 's spinnin' 'round like a 
peerie ! " he exclaimed. 

''Whin did ye ate aanything?" asked 
the sweep. 

" Yestherday." 

" Aye, well, it 's th' mate ye haave n't 
in yer bowels that 's makin' ye feel 
quare." 

''What's th' matther wi th' invintor?" 
Anna asked. 

Billy had removed his pipe and was star- 
ing vacantly into space. 

" I 'm seein' things two at a time, 
b ' Jazus ! " he answered. 

" We 've got plenty of nothin' but 
147 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

wather, maybe ye 'd like a good dhrink, 
Billy?" 

Before he could reply the bogman raised 
himself to a half-sitting posture, and yelled 
with all the power of his lungs : 

''Whoa! back, ye dhirty baste, back!" 
The wild yell chilled the blood in our veins. 

He sat up, looked at the black figure of 
the sweep for a moment, then made a 
spring at Billy, and before any one could 
interfere poor Billy had been felled to the 
floor with a terrible smash on the jaw. 
Then he jumped on him. We youngsters 
raised a howl that awoke the sleepers in 
Pogue's entry. Jamie and Billy soon 
overpowered Boyle. When the neighbors 
arrived they found O'Hare sitting on 
Boyle's neck and Jamie on his legs. 

"Where am I?" Boyle asked. 

'' In the home of friends," Anna 
answered. 

" Wud th' frien's donate a mouthful ov 
breath?" 

148 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 

He was let up. The story of the night 
was told to him. He listened attentively. 
When the story was told he thrust his hand 
into his pocket and brought forth some 
change. 

'' Hould yer han' out, ye black imp o* 
hell," he said to O'Hare. The sweep 
obeyed, but remarked that the town clock 
had already struck twelve. " I don't care 
a damn if it's thirteen!" he said. 
*' That 's fur bread, that 's fur tay, that 's 
fur tobacco an' that 's fur somethin' that 
runs down yer throat like a rasp, fur me. 
Now don't let th' grass grow undther yer 
flat feet, ye divil." 

After some minor instructions from 
Anna, the sweep went off on his midnight 
errand. The neighbors were sent home. 
The kettle replaced the pot on the chain, 
and we gathered full of ecstasy close to the 
fire. 

"Whisht!" Anna said. We listened. 
Above the roar of the wind and the rattling 
149 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

of the casement we heard a loud noise. 

" It 's Billy dundtherin' at Marget 
Kuril's doore," Jamie said. 

O'Hare arrived with a bang! He put 
his bundles down on the table and vigor- 
ously swung his arms like flails around him 
to thaw himself out. Anna arranged the 
table and prepared the meal. Billy and 
Jamie went at the tobacco. Boyle took the 
whiskey and said: 

" I thank my God an' the holy angels 
that I 'm in th' house ov timperance 
payple ! " Then looking at Jamie, he 
said: 

" Here 's t' ye, Jamie, an' ye, Anna, an' 
th' scoundthrel O'Hare, an' here 's t' th' 
three that niver bred, th' priest, th' pope, an' 
th' mule!" 

Then at a draft he emptied the bottle 
and threw it behind the fire, grunting his 
satisfaction. 

" Wud n't that make a corpse turn 'round 
in his coffin?" Billy said. 

150 



IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 

*' Keep yer eye on that loaf, Billy, or 
he '11 be dhrinkin' our health in it ! " Jamie 
remarked humorously. 

Boyle stretched himself on the floor and 
yawned. The little table was brought near 
the fire, the loaf was cut in slices and di- 
vided. It was a scene that brought us to 
the edge of tears — tears of joy. Anna's 
face particularly beamed. She talked as 
she prepared, and her talk was of God's 
appearance ajt the end of every tether, and 
of the silver lining on the edge of every 
cloud. She had a penchant for mottoes, 
but she never used them in a siege. It 
was when the siege was broken she poured 
them in and they found a welcome. As 
she spoke of God bringing relief, Boyle 
got up on his haunches. 

" Anna," he said, " if aanybody brot 
me here th' night it was th' oul divil in 
hell." 

" 'Deed yer mistaken, Felix," she an- 
swered sweetly. '' When God sends a 
151 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

maan aanywhere he always gets there, even 
if he has to be taken there by th' divil." 

When all was ready we gathered around 
the table. "How I wish we could sing!" 
she said as she looked at us. The answer 
was on every face. Hunger would not 
wait on ceremony. We were awed into 
stillness and silence, however, when she 
raised her hand in benediction. We 
bowed our heads. Boyle crossed himself. 

" Father," she said, " we thank Thee 
for sendin' our friend Felix here th' night. 
Bless his wife an' wains, bless them in 
basket an' store an' take good care of his 
oul mare. Amen ! " 



15^ 



CHAPTER VIII 



THE WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 




SAT on a fence in a pota- 
to field, whittling an alder 
stick into a pea-blower one 
afternoon in the early au- 
tumn when I noticed at the 
other end of the field the well-known figure 
of " the master." He was dressed as usual 
in light gray and as usual rode a fine horse. 
I dropped off the fence as if I had been 
shot. He urged the horse to a gallop. I 
pushed the clumps of red hair under my 
cap and pressed it down tightly on my head. 
Then I adjusted the string that served 
as a suspender. On came the galloping 
horse. A few more lightning touches to 
what covered my nakedness and he reined 
up in front of me! I straightened up like 
a piece of whalebone! 
153 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"What are you doing?" he asked in 
that far-off imperious voice of his. 

" Kapin' th' crows off th' pirtas, yer 
honor ! " 

''You need a new shirt!" he said. The 
blood rushed to my face. I tried to 
answer, but the attempt seemed to choke 
me. 

" You need a new shirt ! " he almost 
yelled at me. I saw a smile playing about 
the corners of his fine large eyes. It gave 
me courage. 

" Aye, yer honor, 'deed that 's thrue." 

" Why don't you get one ? '* The 
answer left my mind and traveled like a 
flash to the glottis, but that part of the 
machinery was out of order and the answer 
hung fire. I paused, drew a long breath 
that strained the string. Then matching 
his thin smile with a thick grin I replied: 

" Did yer honor iver work fur four 
shillin's a w^eek and share it wid nine 
others?" 

154 



WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 

*' No ! " he said and the imprisoned smile 
was released. 

" Well, if ye iver do, shure ye '11 be 
lucky to haave skin, let alone shirt ! " 

"You consider yourself lucky, then?" 

" Aye, middlin'/' 

He galloped away and I lay down flat 
on my back, wiped the sweat from my brow 
with the sleeve of my jacket, turned the 
hair loose and eased up the string. 

That night at the first sound of the farm- 
yard bell I took to my heels through the 
fields, through the yard and down the 
Belfast road to Withero's stone-pile. 
Willie was just quitting for the day. I 
was almost breathless, but I blurted out 
what then seemed to me the most impor- 
tant happening in my life. 

Willie took his eye-protectors off and 
looked at me. 

" So ye had a crack wi' the masther, did 
ye?" 

*' Aye, quite a crack." 

155 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" He mistuk ye fur a horse ! " he said. 
This damper on my enthusiasm drew an 
instant reply. 

** 'Deed no, nor an ass naither." 

Willie bundled up his hammers and pre- 
pared to go home. He took out his flint 
and steel. Over the flint he laid a piece of 
brown paper, chemically treated, then he 
struck the flint a sharp blow with the steel, 
a spark was produced, the spark ignited 
the paper, it began to burn in a smolder- 
ing, blazeless way, he stuffed the paper into 
the bowl of his pipe, and began the smoke 
that was to carry him over the journey 
home. I shouldered some of his hammers 
and we trudged along the road toward 
Antrim. 

" Throth, I know yer no ass, me bhoy, 
though Jamie 's a good dale ov a mule, 
but yer Ma 's got wit enough fur the 
family. That answer ye gave Misther 
Chaine was frum yer Ma. It was gey 
cute an '11 git ye a job, I '11 bate," 

156 



WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 

I had something else to tell him, but I 
dreaded his critical mind. When we got 
to the railway bridge he laid his hammers 
on the wall while he relit his pipe. I saw 
my last opportunity and seized it. 

'* Say, Willie, did ye iver haave a feelin' 
that made ye feel fine all over and — and 
— made ye pray ? " 

" I niver pray," he said. " These 
wathery-mouthed gossoons who pray air 
jist like oul Hughie Thornton wi' his pock- 
ets bulgin' wi' scroof (crusts). They're 
naggin at God from Aysther t' Christmas 
t' fill their pockets! A good day's stone 
breakin 's my prayer. At night I jist say, 
* Thank ye. Father ! ' In th' mornin' I 
say ' Morra, Father, how 's all up aroun' 
th' throne this mornin' ? '" 

"An' does He spake t' ye back?" 

" Ov coorse, d 'ye think He 's got worse 
manners nor me ? He says, * Hello, 
Willie,' says He. ' How 's it wi' ye this 
fine mornin' ? ' * Purty fine, Father, purty 

^57 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

fine/ says I. But tell me, bhoy, was there 
a girl aroun' whin that feelin' struck ye?" 

^'Divil a girl, at all! " 

" Them feelin's sometimes comes frum 
a girl, ye know. I had wan wanst, but 
that 's a long story, heigh ho ; aye, that 's a 
long story ! " 

"Did she die, Willie?" 

" Never mind her. That feelin' may 
haave been from God. Yer Ma hes a quare 
notion that wan chile o' her'n will be in- 
clined that way. She 's dhrawn eleven 
blanks, maybe she 's dhrawn a prize, afther 
all; who knows." 

Old McCabe, the road mender, overtook 
us and for the rest of the journey I was 
seen but not heard. 

That night I sat by her side in the chim- 
ney-corner and recited the events of the 
day. It had been full of magic, mystery 
and meaning to me. The meaning was a 
little clearer to me after the recital. 

'' Withero sometimes talks like a ha'- 

158 



WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 

penny book wi' no laves in it," she said. 
'' But most of the time he 's nearer the 
facts than most of us. It is n't all blether, 
dear." 

We sat up late, long after the others had 
gone to sleep. She read softly a chapter 
of " Pilgrim's Progress," the chapter in 
which he is relieved of his burden. I see 
nov^ that woodcut of a gate and over the 
gate the words : " Knock and it shall be 
opened unto you." She had read it be- 
fore. I was familiar with it, but in the 
light of that day's experience it had a new 
meaning. She warned me, however, that 
my name was neither Pilgrim nor Withero, 
and in elucidating her meaning she ex- 
plained the phrase, " The wind bloweth 
where it listeth." I learned to listen for 
the sound thereof and I wondered from' 
whence it came, not only the wind of the 
heavens, but the spirit that moved men in 
so many directions. 

The last act of that memorable night 
159 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

was the making of a picture.. It took many 
years to find out its meaning, but every 
stroke of the brush is as plain to me now 
as they were then. 

"Ye '11 do somethin' for me?" 

" Aye, aanything in th' world." 

"Ye won't glunch nor ask questions?" 
^_^" Not a question." 
/^ " Shut yer eyes an' stan' close t' th' 
/ table." I obeyed. She put into each hand 
a smooth stick with which Jamie had 
smoothed the soles of shoes. 

" Jist for th' now these are the handles 
of a plow. Keep yer eyes shut tight. 
Ye 've seen a maan plowin' a field ? " 

" Aye." 

" Think that ye see a long, long field. 
Ye 're plowin' it. The other end is so far 
away ye can't see it. Ye see a wee bit of 
the furrow, jist a wee bit. Squeeze th' 
plow handles." I squeezed. 

"D'ye see th' trees yonder?" 

" Aye." 

i6o 



WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 

"An' th' birds pickin' in th' furrow?" 

"Ay-e." 

She took the sticks away and gently 
pushed me on a stool and told me I might 
open my eyes. 

" That 's quare," I said. 

" Listen, dear, ye Ve put yer han' t' th' 
plow; ye must niver, niver take it away. 
All through Hfe ye '11 haave thim plow 
handles in yer han's an' ye '11 be goin' down 
th' furrow. Ye '11 crack a stone here and 
there, th' plow '11 stick often an' things '11 
be out of gear, but yer in th' furrow all the 
time. Ye '11 change horses, ye '11 change 
clothes, ye '11 change yerself, but ye '11 al- 
ways be in the furrow, plowin', plowin', 
plowin' ! I '11 go a bit of th' way, Jamie '11 
go a bit, yer brothers an' sisters a bit, but 
we '11 dhrap out wan b' wan. Ye 're God's I 
plowmaan.'y ^ 

As I stood to say good-night she put 
her hand on my head and muttered some- 
thing that was not intended for me to hear. 
i6i 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Then she kissed me good night and I 
climbed to my pallet under the thatch. 

I was afraid to sleep, lest the '' feelin' '' 
should take wings. When I was convinced 
that some of it, at least, would remain, I 
tried to sleep and could n't. The mingled 
ecstasy and excitement was too intense. I 
heard the town clock strike the hours far 
into the morning. 

Before she awoke next morning I 
had exhausted every agency in the house 
that would coordinate flesh and spirit. 
When I was ready I tiptoed to her bedside 
and touched her on the cheek. Instantly 
she awoke and sat upright. I put my 
hands on my hips and danced before her. 
It was a noiseless dance with bare feet on 
the mud floor. 

Her long thin arms shot out toward me 
and I buried myself in them. '* So it 
stayed," she whispered in my ear. 

" Aye, an' there 's more of it." 

She arose and dressed quickly. A live 
162 



WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 

coal was scraped out of the ashes and a 
turf fire built around it. My feet were 
winged as I flew to the town well for water. 
When I returned she had several slices of 
toast ready. Toast was a luxury. Of 
course there was always — or nearly 
always — bread, and often there was but- 
ter, but toast to the very poor in those days 
was n't merely a matter of bread and butter, 
fire and time! It was more often inclina- 
tion that turned the balance for or against 
it, and inclination always came on the back 
of some emotion, chance or circumstance. 
Here all the elements met and the result 
was toast. 

I took a mouthful of her tea out of her 
cup; she reciprocated. We were like chil- 
dren. Maybe we were. Love tipped our 
tongues, winged our feet, opened our hearts 
and hands and permeated every thought and 
act. She stood at the mouth of the entry 
until I disappeared at the town head. 
While I was yet within sight I looked back 
half a dozen times and we waved our hands. 
163 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

It was nearly a year before a dark line 
entered this spiritual spectrum. It was in- 
evitable that such a mental condition — 
ever in search of a larger expression — 
should gravitate toward the Church. It 
has seemed also that it was just as in- 
evitable that the best thought of which the 
Church has been the custodian should be 
crystallized into a creed. I was promoted 
to the " big house." There, of course, I 
was overhauled and put in touch with the 
fittings and furniture. As a flunkey I had 
my first dose of boiled linen and I liked it. 

I was enabled now to attend church and 
Sunday School. Indeed, I would have gone 
there, religion or no religion, for where 
else could I have sported a white shirt and 
collar? With my boiled linen and my 
brain stuffed with texts I gradually drew 
away from the chimney-corner and never 
again did I help Willie Withero to carry 
his hammers. Ah, if one could only go 
back over life and correct the mistakes. 
164 



WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 

Gradually I lost the warm human feeling 
and substituted for it a theology. I began 
to look upon my mother as one about 
whose salvation there was some doubt. I 
urged her to attend church. Forms and 
ceremonies became the all-important things 
and the life and the spirit were proportion- 
ately unimportant. I became mildewed 
with the blight of respectability. I became 
the possessor of a hard hat that I might 
ape the respectables. I walked home every 
night from Ballycraigie with Jamie 
Wallace, and Jamie was the best-dressed 
working man in the town. I was treading 
a well-worn pathway. I was " getting on." 
A good slice of my new religion consisted 
in excellency of service to my employers 
— my " betters." Preacher, priest and 
peasant thought alike on these topics. 
Anna was pleased to see me in a new garb, 
but she noticed and I noticed that I had 
grown away from the corner. In the light 
of my new adjustment I saw duties plainer, 
i6s 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

but duty may become a hammer by which 
affection may be beaten to death. 

I imagined the plow was going nicely 
in the furrow, for I was n't conscious of 
striking any snags or stones, but Anna said : 

" A plowman who skims th' surface of 
th' sod strikes no stones, dear, but it 's 
because he is n't plowin' deep! " 

I have plowed deep enough since, but too 
late to go back and compare notes. 

She was pained, but tried to hide it. If 
she was on the point of tears she would 
tell a funny story. 

" Acushla," she said to me one night 
after a theological discussion, " sure ye 
remind me of a ducklin' hatched by a 
hen/' 

"Why?" 

" We 're at home in conthrary elements. 
Ye use texts t' fight with an' I use thim to 
get pace of heart! " 

'' Are you wiser nor Mr. Holmes, an' 
William Brennan an' Miss McGee?" I 
i66 



WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 

asked. '' Them 's th' ones that think as I 
do — I mane I think as they do ! " 

" No, 'deed I 'm not as wise as aany of 
thim, but standin' outside a wee bit I can 
see things that can't be seen inside. Forby 
they haave no special pathway t' God that 's 
shut t' me, nor yer oul father nor Willie 
Withero!" 

Sometimes Jamie took a hand. Once 
when he thought Anna was going to cry, 
in an argument, he wheeled around in his 
seat and delivered himself. 

" I '11 tell ye, Anna, that whelp needs a 
good argyment wi' th' tongs! Jist take 
thim an' hit 'im a skite on the jaw wi' thim 
an' I '11 say, ' Amen.' " 

*' That 's no clinch to an argyment," I 
said, " an thruth is thruth ! " 

" Aye, an' tongs is tongs ! An' some o' 
ye young upstarts whin ye get a dickey on 
an' a choke-me-tight collar think yer jist 
ready t' sit down t' tay wi' God ! " 

Anna explained and gave me more 
167 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

credit than was due me. So Jamie ended 
the colloquy by the usual cap to his every 
climax. 

'' Well, what th' do I know about 

thim things, aanyway. Let 's haave a good 
cup o' tay an' say no more about it ! " 

The more texts I knew the more fanat- 
ical I became. And the more of a 
fanatic I was the wider grew the chasm 
that divided me from my mother. I 
talked as if I knew " every saint in heaven 
and every divil in hell." 

She was more than patient with me, 
though my spiritual conceit must have given 
her many a pang. Antrim was just begin- 
ning to get accustomed to my new habili- 
ments of boots, boiled linen and hat when 
I left to " push my fortune " in other 
parts. My enthusiasm had its good quali- 
ties too, and she was quick to recognize 
them, quicker than to notice its blemishes. 
My last hours in the town — on the eve of 
my first departure — I spent with her. '' I 
i68 



WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 

feel about you, dear," she said, laughing, 
*' as Micky Free did about the soul of his 
father in Purgatory. He had been payin' 
for masses for what seemed to him an un- 
commonly long time. * How 's th' oul bhoy 
gettin' on?' Micky asked the priest 
' Purty well, Micky, his head is out/ 
* Begorra, thin, I know th' rist ov 'im will 
be out soon — I '11 pay for no more 
masses ! ' Your head is up and out from 
the bottom of th' world, and I haave faith 
that ye '11 purty soon be all out, an' some 
day ye '11 get the larger view, for ye '11 be 
in a larger place an' ye '11 haave seen more 
of people an' more of the world." 

I have two letters of that period. One 
I wrote her from Jerusalem in the year 
1884. As I read the yellow, childish epis- 
tle I am stung with remorse that it is full 
of the narrow sectarianism that still held 
me in its grip. The other is dated Antrim, 
July, 1884, and is her answer to my sec- 
tarian appeal. 

169 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

*' Dear boy," she says, '' Antrim has had 
many soldier sons in far-off lands, but you 
are the first, I think, to have the privilege 
of visiting the Holy Land. Jamie and I 
are proud of you. All the old friends 
have read your letter. They can hardly 
believe it. Don't worry about our souls. 
When we come one by one in the twilight 
of life, each of us, Jamie and I, will have 
our sheaves. They will be little ones, but 
we are little people. I want no glory here 
or hereafter that Jamie cannot share(^ I 
gave God a plowmap^but your father says 
I must chalk 'Tialf of that to his account. 
Upld tigh t^he handles and plow deep. We 
watch the candle and e^\^ery wee spark 
thrills our hearts, for we know it 's a letter 
from you. 

"Your loving mother." 



170 




CHAPTER IX 
BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' TH' CLOUDS " 

HEN the bill-boards an- 
nounced that I was to de- 
liver a lecture on " England 
in the Soudan " in the only 
hall in the town, Antrim 
turned out to satisfy its curiosity. '' How 
doth this man know, not having learned," 
the wise ones said, for when I shook the 
dust of its blessed streets from my brogues 
seven years previously I was an illiterate. 
Anna could have told them, but none of 
the wise knew^ her, for curiously enough to 
those who knew of her existence, but had 
never seen her, she was known as " Jamie's 
w^ife." Butchers and bakers and candle- 
stick makers were there; several ministers, 
some quality, near quality, the inhabitants 
of the entries in the " Scotch quarter " and 
171 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

all the newsboys in town. The fact that 
I personally bribed the newsboys accounted 
for their presence. I bought them out 
and reserved the front seats for them. It 
was in the way of a class reunion with me. 
Billy O'Hare had gone beyond — where 
there are no chimneys, and Ann where she 
could keep clean: they were both dead. 
Many of the old familiar faces were 
absent, they too had gone — some to other 
lands, some to another world. Jamie was 
there. He sat between Willie Withero 
and Ben Baxter. He heard little of what 
was said and understood less of what he 
heard. The vicar, Mr. Holmes, presided. 
There was a vote of thanks, followed by 
the customary seconding by public men, 
then " God save the Queen," and I went 
home to tell Anna about it. 

Jamie took one arm and Withero clung 
to the other. 

*' Jamie ! " shouted Withero in a voice 
that could be heard by the crowd that fol- 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

lowed us, '' d 'ye mind th' first time I seen 
ye wi' Anna? " 

"Aye, 'deed I do!" 

" Ye did n't know it was in 'er, did ye, 
Jamie?" 

"Yer a liar, Willie; I know'd frum th' 
minute I clapped eyes on 'er that she was 
th' finest wuman on God's futstool!" 

" Ye can haave whativer benefit ov th' 
doubt there is, Jamie, but jist th' same any 
oul throllop can be a father, but by G — it 
takes a rale wuman t' be th' mother ov a 
rale maan! Put that in yer pipe an* 
smoke it." 

" He seems t' think," said Jamie, appeal- 
ing to me, *' that only quality can projuce 
fine childther!" 

" Yer spakin' ov clothes, Jamie ; I 'm 
spakin' ov mind, an' ye wor behind th' 
doore whin th' wor givin' it out, but be- 
gorra, Anna was at th' head ov th' class, 
an' that 's no feerie story, naither, is it, 
me bhoy?" 

^7Z 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

At the head of Pogue's entry, Bob 
Dougherty, Tommy Wilson, Sam Man- 
derson, Lucinda Gordon and a dozen others 
stopped for a '' partin' crack." 

The kettle was boiling on the chain. 
The hearth had been swept and a new coat 
of whitening applied. There was a can- 
dle burning in her sconce and the thin 
yellow rays lit up the glory on her face — 
a glory that was encased in a newly tallied 
white cap. My sister sat on one side of 
the fireplace and she on the other — in her 
corner. I did not wonder, I did not ask 
why they did not make a supreme effort 
to attend the lecture — I knew. They 
were more supremely interested than I 
was. They had never heard a member of 
the family or a relative speak in public, 
and their last chance had passed by. 
There they were, in the light of a peat fire 
and the tallow dip, supremely happy. 

The neighbors came in for a word with 



"BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS" 

Anna. They filled the space. The stools 
and creepies were all occupied. 

'* Sit down, Willie," my father said. 
" Take a nice cushioned chair an' be at 
home." Withero was leaning against the 
table. He saw and was equal to the joke. 

'' Whin nature put a pilla on maan, it 
was intinded fur t' sit on th' groun', 
Jamie ! " And down he sat on the mud 
floor. 

" It 's th' proud wuman ye shud be th' 
night," Marget Hurll said, " an Misther 
Armstrong it was that said it was proud 
th' town shud be t' turn out a boy like 
him!" 

Withero took his pipe out of his mouth 
and spat in the ashes — as a preface to a 
few remarks. 

" Aye," he grunted, " I cocked m' ears 
up an' dunched oul Jamie whin Armshtrong 
said that. Jamie cud n't hear it, so I 
whispered t' m'self, ' Begorra, if a wee fella 

175 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

turns up whin Anthrim turns 'im out it 's 
little credit t' Anthrim I 'm thinkin' ! ' " 

Anna laughed and Jamie, putting his 
hand behind his ear, asked: 

"What's that — what's that?" 

The name and remarks of the gentle- 
man who seconded the vote of thanks were 
repeated to him. 

" Ha, ha, ha ! " he laughed as he slapped 
me on the knee. ** Well, well, well, if 
that wud n't make a brass monkey 
laugh ! " 

'' Say," he said to me, '' d 'ye mind th' 
night ye come home covered wi' clab- 
ber—" 

*' Whisht ! " I said, as I put my mouth 
to his ear. " I only want to mind that he 
had three very beautiful daughters!" 

"Did ye iver spake t' aany o' thim?" 
Jamie asked. 

" Yes." 

"Whin?" 

" When I sold them papers/' 
176 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

''Ha, ha, a ha'penny connection, eh?" 

" It 's betther t' mind three fine things 
about a maan than wan mean thing, Jamie," 
Anna said. 

"If both o' ye 's on me I 'm bate," he 
said. 

'' Stop yer palaver an' let 's haave a 
story ov th' war wi' th' naygars in Egypt," 
Mrs. Hurll said. 

*' Aye, that 's right," one of the Gainer 
boys said. " Tell us what th' queen give 
ye a medal fur ! " 

They wanted a story of blood, so I 
smeared the tale red. When I finished 
Anna said, " Now tell thim, dear, what ye 
tuk th' shillin' fur!" 

"You tell them, mother." 

" Ye tuk it t' fight ignorance an' not 
naygars, did n't ye ? " , 

" Yes, but that fight continues." 

"Aye, with you, but — " 

" Ah, never mind, mother, I have taken 
it up where you laid it down, and long 
177 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

after — " that was far as I got, for Jamie 
exploded just then and said: 

'' Now get t' h — 1 home, ivery wan o' 
ye, an' give 's a minute wi' 'im jist for our- 
selves, will ye? " 

He said it with laughter in his voice 
and it sounded in the ears of those present 
as polite and pleasing as anything in the 
domain of their amenities. 

They arose as one, all except Withero, 
and he could n't, for Jamie gripped him 
by a leg and held him on the floor just as 
he sat. 

In their good-night expressions the 
neighbors unconsciously revealed w^hat the 
lecture and the story meant to them. 
Summed up it meant, '' Sure it 's jist 
wondtherful ye w^ar n't shot ! " 

When we were alone, alone with 
Withero, Mary '' wet " a pot of tea and 
warmed up a few farrels of fadge, and we 
commenced. Little was said, but feeling 
ran high. It was like a midnight mass. 
1/8 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

Anna was silent, but there were tears, and 
as I held her in my arms and kissed them 
away Jamie was saying to Withero: 

'' Ye might take 'im fur a dandther out 
where ye broke whin we first met ye, 
Willie ! " 

" Aye," Willie said, " I 'm m' own gaffer, 
I will that." 

I slept at Jamie Wallace's that night, 
and next morning took the '' dandther " 
with Withero up the Dublin road, past 
"The Mount of Temptation" to the old 
stone-pile that was no longer a pile, but a 
hole in the side of the road. It was a sen- 
timental journey that gave Willie a chance 
to say some things I knew he wanted to 
say. 

" D 'ye mind the pirta sack throusers 
Anna made ye onct ? " 

"Yes, what of them?" 

" Did ye iver think ye cud git used f 
aanything if ye wor forced t' haave nothin* 
else fur a while ? " 

179 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"What's the point, WilHe?" 
** Sit down here awhile an' I '11 tell ye.'* 
We sat down on the bank of the road- 
side. He took out his pipe, steel and flint, 
filled his pipe and talked as he filled. 

" Me an' Jamie wor pirta sack people, 
purty damned rough, too, but yer Ma was 
a piece ov fine linen frum th' day she 
walked down this road wi' yer Dah till this 
minit whin she 's waitin' fur ye in the cor- 
ner. Ivery Sunday I 've gone in jist t' hai 
a crack wi' 'er an' d' ye know, bhoy, I got 
out o' that crack somethin' good fur th' 
week. She was i'hell on sayin' words 
purcisely, but me an' Jamie wor too thick, 
an' begorra she got used t' pirta sack words 
herself, but she was i' fine linen jist th' 
same. 

" Wan day she says t' me, ' Willie,' says 
she, ' ye see people through dirty specs.' 
'How's that?' says 1. 'I don't know,' 
says she, ' fur I don't wear yer specs, but 
I think it 's jist a poor habit ov yer mind. 
1 80 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

Aych poor craither is made up ov some 
good an' much that is n't s' good, an' ye 
see only what is n't s' good ! ' 

'' Thin she towld m' somethin' which 
she niver towld aanyone else, 'cept yer Dah, 
ov coorse. ' Willie,' says she, ' fur twenty 
years I 've seen th' Son ov Maan ivery day 
ov m' life! ' 

''* How's that?' says I. 

" * I 've more 'n seen 'm. I 've made tay 
fur 'im, an' broth on Sunday. I 've 
mended 'is oul duds, washed 'is dhirty 
clothes, shuk 'is han', stroked 'is hair an' 
said kind words to 'im ! ' 

" * God Almighty ! ' says I, * yer goin' 
mad, Anna ! ' She tuk her oul Bible an' 
read t' me these words; I mind thim well: 

" ' Whin ye do it t' wan o' these craithers 
ye do it t' me ! ' 

'*Well, me bhoy, I thunk an' I thunk 

over thim words an' wud ye believe it — 

I begun t' clane m' specs. Wan day th' 

* Dummy ' came along t' m' stone-pile. 

i8i 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Ye mind 'er, don't ye?" (The Dummy 
was a harlot, who lived in the woods up 
the Dublin road in summer, and Heaven 
only knows where in winter.) 

'' Th' Dummy," Willie continued, " came 
over t' th' pile an' acted purty gay, but 
says I, 'Dummy, if there's anythin' I kin 
give ye I '11 give it, but there 's nothin' ye 
kin give me ! ' 

" ' Ye break stones fur a livin',' says she. 

" ' Aye,' says I. 

" ' What wud ye do if ye wor a lone wu- 
man an' cud n't get nothin' at all t' do ? ' 

" * I dunno,' says I. 

" ' I don't want to argufy or palaver wi' 
a dacent maan,' says she, * but I 'm terrible 
hungry.' 

" ^ Luk here,' says I, * I 've got a dozen 
pirtas I 'm goin' t' roast fur m' dinner. 
I '11 roast thim down there be that gate, 
an' I '11 lave ye six an' a dhrink ov butther- 
milk. Whin ye see m' lave th' gate ye '11 
know yer dinner 's ready.' 
182 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

" * God save ye/ says she, * may yer meal 
barrel niver run empty an' may yer bread 
f oriver be roughcasted wi' butther ! ' 

" I begun t' swither whin she left. Says 
I, * Withero, is yer specs clane ? Kin ye 
see th' Son ov Maan in th' Dummy ? ' 
' Begorra, I dunno/ says I t' m'self. I 
scratched m' head an' swithered till I 
thought m' brains wud turn t' stone. 

"Says I t' m'self at last, 'Aye, 'deed 
there must be th' spark there what Anna 
talks about ! ' Jist then I heard yer 
mother's voice as plain as I hear m' own 
now at this minute — an' what d' ye think 
Anna says ? " 

" I don't know, Willie." 

" * So ye haave th' Son ov Maan t' dinner 
th' day?' *Aye,' says I. 

" * An' givin' 'im yer lavins ! ' 

** It was like a piece ov stone cuttin' the 
ball ov m' eye. It cut deep! 

" I ran down th' road an' says I t' th' 
Dummy, * I '11 tie a rag on a stick an' whin 

183 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

ye see m' wavin' it come an' take yer dinner 
an' ril take what's left!' 

" I did n't wait fur no answer, but went 
and did what I shud. 

" That summer whin she was hungry she 
hung an oul rag on th' thorn hedge down be 
the wee plantain where she camped, and 
I answered be a rag on a stick that she cud 
share mine and take hers first. One day 
I towld 'er yer mother's story about th' 
Son ov Maan. It was th' only time I ever 
talked wi' 'er. That winther she died in 
th' poorhouse and before she died she sint 
me this." He pulled out of an inside 
pocket a piece of paper yellow with age 
and so scuffed with handling that the scrawl 
was scarcely legible: 

Mr. Withero 

Stone breaker 
Dublin Road 
Antrim 
" I seen Him in the ward last night and 
I 'm content to go now. God save you kindly. 

The Dummy/' 
184 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

Withero having unburdened, we dan- 
dered down the road, through Masserene 
and home. 

I proposed to Anna a little trip to Lough 
Neagh in a jaunting car. 

'* No, dear, it 's no use; I want to mind 
it jist as Jamie and I saw it years an' 
years ago. I see it here in th' corner jist 
as plain as I saw it then; forby Antrim 
wud never get over th' shock of seein' 
me in a jauntin' car." 

" Then I '11 tell you of a shorter jour- 
ney. You have never seen the Steeple. 
It 's the most perfect of all the Round 
Towers in Ireland and just one mile from 
this corner. Now don't deny me the joy 
of taking you there. I '11 guide you over 
the strand and away back of the poorhouse, 
out at the station, and then it 's just a 
hundred yards or so ! " 

It took the combined efforts of Jamie, 
Withero, Mary and me to persuade her, 
but she was finally persuaded, and dressed 

185 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

in a borrowed black knitted cap and her 
wee Sunday shawl, she set out with us. 

" This is like a weddin'," Jamie said, as 
he tied the ribbons under her chin. 

" Oh, it 's worse, dear. It 's a circus 
an' wake in wan, fur I 'm about dead an' 
he 's turned clown for a while." In five 
minutes everybody in Pogue's entry heard 
the news. They stood at the door waiting 
to have a look. 

Matty McGrath came in to see if there 
was " aanythin' " she could do. 

" Aye," Anna said, smiling, " ye can go 
over an' tell oul Ann Agnew where I 'm 
goin' so she won't worry herself t' death 
findin' out ! " 

" She won't see ye," Jamie said. 

" She 'd see a fly if it lit within a 
hundred yards of her ! " 

We went down the Kill entry and over 

the rivulet we called " the strand." There 

were stepping stones in the water and the 

passage was easy. As we crossed she said : 

i86 



" BEYOx\D TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

" Right here was th' first place ye ever 
came t' see th' sun dance on th' water on 
Easter Sunday mornin'." 

We turned to the right and walked by 
the old burying ground of the Unitarian 
meeting-house and past Mr. Smith's gar- 
den. Next to Smith's garden was the 
garden of a cooper — I think his name was 
Farren. " Right here," I said, " is where 
I commited my first crime!" 

" What was it ? " she asked. 

" Stealing apples ! " 

"Aye, what a townful of criminals we 
had then!" 

We reached the back of the poorhouse. 
James Gardner was the master of it, and 
" goin' t' Jamie Gardner " was under- 
stood as the last march of many of the in- 
habitants of Antrim, beginning with " Tot- 
ther Jack Welch," who was a sort of pauper 
primus inter pares of the town. 

As we passed the little graveyard, we 
stood and looked over the fence at the 

187 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

little boards, all of one size and one pattern, 
that marked each grave. 

" God in Heaven ! " she exclaimed, 
" is n't it fearful not to git rid of pov- 
erty even in death I " I saw a shudder 
pass over her face and I turned mine 
away. 

Ten minutes later we emerged from the 
fields at the railway station. 

" You Ve never seen Mr. McKillop, the 
station master, have you ? " I asked. 

" No." 

" Let us wait here for a minute, we may 
see him." 

" Oh, no, let 's hurry on t' th' Steeple ! " 
So on we hurried. 

It took a good deal of courage to enter 
when we got there, for the far-famed 
Round Tower of Antrim is private 
property. Around it is a stone wall en- 
closing the grounds of an estate. The 
Tower stands near the house of the owner, 
and it takes temerity in the poor to enter. 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

They seldom do enter, as a matter of fact, 
for they are not particularly interested in 
archeology. 

We timidly entered and walked up to 
the Tower. 

''So that's th' Steeple!" 

"Isn't it fine?" 

" Aye, it 's wondtherful, but wud n't it 
be nice t' take our boots off an' jist walk 
aroun' on this soft nice grass on our bare 
feet?" 

The lawn was closely clipped and as level 
as a billiard table. The trees were dressed 
in their best summer clothing. Away in 
the distance we caught glimpses of an 
abundance of flowers. The air was full 
of the perfume of honeysuckle and sweet 
clover. Anna drank in the scenery with 
almost childish delight. 

'' D' ye think heaven will be as nice ? " 
she asked. 

" Maybe." 

"If it is, we will take our boots off an' 
189 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

sit down, won't we ? " And she laughed 
like a girl. 

'* If there are boots in the next world," 
I said, " there will be cobblers, and you 
would n't want our old man to be a 
cobbler to all eternity? " 

" You 're right," she said, " nor afther 
spending seventy-five years here without 
bein' able to take my boots off an' walk on 
a nice lawn like this wud I care to spend 
eternity without that joy ! " 

"Do we miss what we've never had?" 

" Aye, 'deed we do. I miss most what 
I Ve never had ! " 

"What, for instance?" 

" Oh, I '11 tell ye th' night when we 're 
alone!" 

We walked around the Tower and ven- 
tured once beneath the branches of a big 
tree. 

" If we lived here, d' ye know what I 'd 
like f do?" 

" No." 

190 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

'' Jist take our boots off an' play hide 
and go seek — wudn't it be fun?" 

I laughed loudly. 

" Whisht ! " she said. '' They '11 catch us 
if you make a noise! " 

'' You seem bent on getting your boots 
off ! " I said laughingly. Her reply struck 
me dumb. 

" Honey/' she said, so softly and looking 
into my eyes, " do ye realize that (I have 
never stood on a patch of lawn in my life 
before?''^ 

Hand in hand we walked toward the 
gate, taking an occasional, wistful glance 
back at the glory of the few, and thinking, 
both of us,kof the millions of tired feet 
that never felt the softness of a smooth 
green sward. ^ 

At eight o'clock that night the door was 
shut and barred. 

Jamie tacked several copies of the 
Weekly Budget over the window and we 
were alone. 

191 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

We talked of old times. We brought 
back the dead and smiled or sighed over 
them. Old tales, of the winter nights of 
long ago, were retold with a new interest. 

The town clock struck nine. 

We sat in silence as we used to sit, 
while another sexton tolled off the days of 
the month after the ringing of the cur- 
few. 

" Many 's th' time ye 've helter-skeltered 
home at th' sound of that bell ! " she said. 

" Yes, because the sound of the bell 
was always accompanied by a vision of a 
wet welt hanging over the edge of the tub ! " 

Jamie laughed and became reminiscent. 

" D' ye mind what ye said wan time whin 
I bate ye wi' th' stirrup? " 

" No, but I used to think a good deal 
more than I said." 

" Aye, but wan time I laid ye across m' 
knee an' give ye a good shtrappin', then 
stud ye up an' says I, * It hurts me worse 
than it hurts ye, ye divil ! ' 
192 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

" ' Aye/ says you, ' but it diz n't hurt ye 
in th' same place ! ' 

'' I don't remember, but from time im- 
memorial boys have thought and said the 
same thing." 

" D 'ye mind when / bate ye ? " Anna 
asked with a smile. 

" Yes, I remember you solemnly prom- 
ised Jamie you would punish me and when 
he went down to Barney's you took a long 
straw and lashed me fearfully with it! " 

The town clock struck ten. 

Mary, who had sat silent all evening, 
kissed us all good night and went to bed. 

I was at the point of departure for the 
New World. Jamie wanted to know what 
I was going to do. I outlined an ambition, 
but its outworking was a problem. It was 
beyond his ken. He could not take in the 
scope of it. Anna could, for she had it 
from the day she first felt the movement 
of life in me. It was unpretentious — 
nothing the world would call great. 

193 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

'* Och, maan, but that wud be th' proud 
day fur Anna if ye cud do it." 

When the town clock struck eleven, 
Anna trembled. 

'' Yer cowld, Anna," he said. " I '11 put 
on a few more turf." 

" There 's plenty on, dear ; I 'm not cold 
in my body." 

'' Acushla, m' oul hide 's like a buffalo's 
or I 'd see that ye want 'im t' yerself. I 'm 
off t' bed!" 

We sat in silence gazing into the peat 
fire. Memory led me back down the road 
to yesterday. She was out in the future 
and wandering in an unknown continent 
with only hope to guide her. Yet we must 
get together, and that quickly. 

" Minutes are like fine gold now," she 
said, " an' my tongue seems glued, but I 
jist must spake." 

" We have plenty of time, mother." 

" Plenty ! " she exclaimed. '' Every 
clang of th' town clock is a knife cuttin' 
194 



" BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS " 

th' cords — wan afther another — that 
bind me t' ye." 

" I want to know about your hope, your 
outlook, your religion," I said. 

^' Th' biggest hope I 've ever had was t' 
bear a chile that would love everybody as 
yer father loved me! " 

" A sort of John-three-sixteen in minia- 
ture." 

" Aye." 

" The aim is high enough to begin 
with ! " 

"Not too high!" 

" And your reHgion ? " 

" All in all, it 's bein' kind an' lovin' 
kindness. That takes in God an' maan an' 
Pogue's entry an' th' world." 

The town clock struck twelve. Each 
clang " a knife cutting a cord " and each 
heavier and sharper than the last. Each 
one vibrating, tingling, jarring along every 
nerve, sinew and muscle. A feeling of 
numbness crept over me. 
195 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" That 's the end of life for me," she said 
slowly. There was a pause, longer and 
more intense than all the others. 

" Maybe ye '11 get rich an' forget." 

" Yes, I shall be rich. I shall be a mil- 
lionaire — a millionaire of love, but no one 
shall ever take your place, dear ! " 

My overcoat served as a pillow. An 
old quilt made a pallet on the hard floor. 
I found myself being pressed gently down 
from the low creepie to the floor. I pre- 
tended to sleep. Her hot tears fell on my 
face. Her dear toil-worn fingers were 
run gently through my hair. She was on 
her knees by my side. The tender mys- 
ticism of her youth came back and ex- 
pressed itself in prayer. It was inter- 
spersed with tears and '' Ave Maria ! " 

When the first streak of dawn pene- 
trated the old window we had our last cup 
of tea together and later, when I held her 
in a long, lingering embrace, there were no 
tears — we had shed them all in the silence 
196 



"BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' CLOUDS" 

of the last vigil. When I was ready to go, 
she stood with her arm on the old yellow 
mantel-shelf. She was rigid and pale as 
death, but around her eyes and her mouth 
there played a smile. There was a look 
ineffable of maternal love. 

*' We shall meet again, mother," I said. 

" Aye, dearie, I know rightly we '11 meet, 
but ochanee, it '11 be out there beyond th' 
meadows an' th' clouds." 



197 




CHAPTER X 
THE EMPTY CORNER 

HEN I walked into Pogue's 
entry about fifteen years 
later, it seemed like walking 
into another world — I was 
a foreigner. 
'' How quare ye spake ! " Jamie said, 
and Mary added demurely: 

" Is it quality ye are that ye spake like 
it?" 

" No, faith, not at all," I said, " but it 's 
the quality of America that makes me ! " 
" Think of that, now," she exclaimed. 
The neighbors came, new neighbors — 
a new generation, to most of whom I was 
a tradition. Other boys and girls had left 
Antrim for America, scores of them in the 
course of the years. There was a popular 
supposition that we all knew each other. 
198 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



" Ye see th' Wilson bhoys ivery day, I *11 
bate," Mrs. Hainey said. 

" No, I have never seen any of them." 

'* Saints alive, how's that?" 

" Because we live three thousand miles 
apart." 

" Aye, well, shure that 'ud be quite a 
dandther ! " 

'* It did n't take ye long t' git a fortune, 
did it?" another asked. 

" I never acquired a fortune such as you 
are thinking of." 

" Anna said ye wor rich ! " 

" Anna was right, I am rich, but I was 
the richest boy in Antrim when I lived 
here." 

They looked dumbfounded. 

"How's that?" Mrs. Conner queried. 

*' Because Anna was my mother." 

I did n't want to discuss Anna at that 
time or to that gathering, so I gave the 
conversation a sudden turn and diplomatic- 
ally led them in another direction. I ex- 
199 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

plained how much easier it was for a 
poHceman than a minister to make a " for- 
tune " and most Irishmen in America had 
a special bias toward law! Jamie had 
grown so deaf that he could only hear 
when I shouted into his ear. Visitors kept 
on coming, until the little house was un- 
comfortably full. 

"Wouldn't it be fine," I shouted into 
Jamie's ear, " if Billy O'Hare or Withero 
could just drop in now?" 

" God save us all," he said, " th' oul days 
an' oul faces are gone foriver." After 
some hours of entertainment the unin- 
vited guests were invited to go home. 

I pulled Jamie's old tub out into the 
center of the floor and, taking my coat off, 
said gently : " Now, good neighbors, I 
have traveled a long distance and need a 
bath, and if you don't mind I '11 have one 
at once ! " 

They took it quite seriously and went 
home quickly. As soon as the house was 
200 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



cleared I shut and barred the door and 
Mary and I proceeded to prepare the even- 
ing meal. 

I brought over the table and put it in 
its place near the fire. In looking over 
the old dresser I noticed several additions 
to the inventory I knew. The same old 
plates were there, many of them broken 
and arranged to appear whole. All holes, 
gashes, dents and cracks were turned back 
or down to deceive the beholder. There 
were few whole pieces on the dresser. 

" Great guns, Mary," I exclaimed, '' here 
are two new plates and a new cup! Well, 
well, and you never said a word in any of 
your letters about them." 

" Ye need n't get huffed if we don't 
tell ye all the startlin' things ! " Mary 
said. 

" Ah ! " I exclaimed, " there 's her cup ! " 
I took the precious thing from the shelf. 
The handle was gone, there was a gash at 
the lip and a few new cracks circling 

20I 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

around the one I was familiar with twenty 
years previously. 

What visions of the past came to me in 
front of that old dresser! How often in 
the long ago she had pushed that old cup 
gently toward me along the edge of the 
table — gently, to escape notice and avoid 
jealousy. Always at the bottom of it a 
teaspoonful of her tea and beneath the tea 
a bird's-eye-full of sugar. Each fairy pic- 
ture of straggling tea leaves was our 
moving picture show of those old days. 
We all had tea leaves, but she had imag- 
ination. How we laughed and sighed and 
swithered over the fortunes spread out 
all over the inner surface of that cup! 

''If ye stand there affrontin' our poor 
oul delf all night we won't haave aany tea 
at all ! " Mary said. The humor had gone 
from my face and speech from my tongue. 
I felt as one feels when he looks for the 
last time upon the face of his best friend. 
Mary laughed when I laid the old cup on 
202 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



a comparatively new saucer at my place. 
There was another laugh when I laid it 
out for customs inspection in the port of 
New York. I had a set of rather delicate 
after-dinner coffee cups. One bore the 
arms of Coventry in colors; another had 
the seal of St. John's College, Oxford; one 
was from Edinburgh and another from 
Paris. They looked aristocratic. I laid 
them out in a row and at the end of the 
row sat the proletarian, forlorn and bat- 
tered — Anna's old tea-cup. 

" What did you pay for this ? " asked 
the inspector as he touched it contemp- 
tuously with his official toe. 

*' Never mind what I paid for it," I re- 
plied, " it 's valued at a million dollars ! " 
The officer laughed and I think the 
other cups laughed also, but they were 
not contemptuous; they w^ere simply jeal- 
ous. 

Leisurely I went over the dresser, noting 
the new chips and cracks, handling them, 
203 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

maybe fondling some of them and putting 
them as I found them. 

" I '11 jist take a cup o' tay," Jamie said, 
" I 'm not feelin' fine." 

I had less appetite than he had, and Mary 
had less than either of us. So we sipped 
our tea for awhile in silence. 

*' She did n't stay long afther ye left,'* 
Jamie said, without looking up. Turning 
to Mary he continued, '' How long was it, 
aanyway, Mary ? " 

" Jist a wee while." 

" Aye, I know it was n't long." 

"Did she suffer much?" I asked. 

" She did n't suffer aany at all," he said, 
'* she jist withered like th' laves on th' 
threes." 

*' She jist hankered t' go," Mary added. 

*' Wan night whin Mary was asleep," 
Jamie continued, " she read over again yer 
letther — th' wan where ye wor spakin' so 
much about fish in'." 

" Aye," I said, " I had just been appointed 
204 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



missionary to a place called the Bowery, in 
New York, and I wrote her that I was 
no longer her plowman, but her iisher of 
men." 

'* Och, maan, if ye cud haave heard her 
laugh over th' different kinds ov fishes ye 
wor catchin' ! Iv'ry day for weeks she 
read it an' laughed an' cried over it. That 
night she says t' me, * Jamie,' says she, ' I 
don't care s' much fur fishers ov men as I 
do for th' plowman.' 'Why?' says I. 

" ' Because,' says she, ' a gey good voice 
an' nice clothes will catch men, an' wimen 
too, but it takes brains t' plow up th' super- 
stitions ov th' ignorant.' 

" ' There 's somethin' in that,' says I. 

" ' Tell 'im whin he comes,' says she, * that 
I put th' handles ov a plow in his han's an' 
he 's t' let go ov thim only in death.' 

" ' I '11 tell 'm,' says I, ' but it 's yerself 

that '11 be here whin he comes,' says I. 

She smiled like an' says she, ' What ye 

don't know, Jamie, wud make a pretty big 

205 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

library.' ' Aye,' says I, ' I haave n't aany 
doubt ov that, Anna.' " 

" There was a loud knock at the door." 

" Let thim dundther," Mary said. He 
put his hand behind his ear and asked 
eagerly : 

"What is 't?" 

" Somebody 's dundtherin'." 

" Let thim go t' h ," he said angrily. 

'* Th' tuk 'im frum Anna last time, th' 
won't take 'im frum me an' you, Mary." 

Another and louder knock. 

" It 's Misthress Healy," came a voice. 
Again his hand was behind his ear. The 
name was repeated to him. 

" Misthress Healy, is it ; well, I don't 
care a d — n if it was Misthress Toe-y!" 

For a quarter of a century my sister has 
occupied my mother's chimney-comer, but 
it was vacant that night. She sat on my 
father's side of the fire. He and I sat op- 
posite each other at the table — I on the 
same spot, on the same stool where I used 
206 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



to sit when her cup toward the close of the 
meal came traveling along the edge of the 
table and w^here her hand with a crust in 
it would sometimes blindly grope for mine. 

But she was not there. In all my life 
I have never seen a space so empty! 

My father w^as a peasant, with all the 
mental and physical characteristics of his 
class. My sister is a peasant woman who 
has been cursed with the same grinding 
poverty that cursed my mother's life. 
About my mother there was a subtlety of 
intellect and a spiritual quality that even in 
my ignorance was fascinating to me. I 
returned equipped to appreciate it and she 
was gone. Gone, and a wide gulf lay be- 
tween those left behind, a gulf bridged by 
the relation we have to the absent one 
more than by the relation we bore to each 
other. 

We felt as keenly as others the kinship 
of the flesh, but there are kinships trans- 
cendentally higher, nobler and of a purer 
207 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

nature than the nexus of the flesh. There 
were things to say that had to be left un- 
said. They had not traveled that way. 
The language of my experience would have 
been a foreign tongue to them. She would 
have understood. 

" Wan night be th' fire here," Jamie 
said, taking the pipe out of his mouth, 
*' she says t' me, ' Jamie,' says she, ' I 'm 
clane done, jist clane done, an' I won't be 
long here.' 

'* ' Och, don't spake s' downmouth'd, 
Anna,' says I. ' Shure ye '11 feel fine in 
th' mornin'.' 

" ' Don't palaver,' says she, an' she lukt 
terrible serious. 

" ' My God, Anna,' says I, * ye wud n't be 
lavin' me alone,' says I, ' I can't thole it.' 

" * Yer more strong/ says she, ' an' ye '11 
live till he comes back — thin we '11 be 
t'gether.' " 

He stopped there. He could go no 
farther for several minutes. 
2o8 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



" I hate a maan that gowls, but — " 

" Go on," I said, *' have a good one and 
Mary and I will wash the cups and 
saucers." 

" D' ye know what he wants t' help me 
fur?" Mary asked, with her mouth close 
to his ear. 

" No." 

" He wants t' dhry thim so he can kiss 
her cup whin he wipes it! Kiss her cup, 
ye mind ; and right content with that ! " 

" I don't blame 'im," said he, '' I 'd kiss 
th' very groun' she walked on ! " 

As we proceeded to wash the cups, Mary 
asked : 

" Diz th' ministhers in America wash 
dishes?" 

" Some of them." 

"What kind?" 

"My kind." 

"What do th' others do?" 

" The big ones lay corner-stones and the 
little ones lay foundations." 
209 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" Saints alive," she said, '' an' what do 
th' hens do?" 

"They clock" (hatch). 

''Pavin' stones?" 

" I did n't say pavin' stones ! " 

" Oh, aye," she laughed loudly. 

" Luk here," Jamie said, " I want t' 

laugh too. Now what th' is 't yer 

gigglin' at?" 

I explained. 

He smiled and said: 

" Jazus, bhoy, that reminds me ov Anna, 
she cud say more funny things than aany 
wan I iver know'd." 

" And that reminds me," I said, " that 
the word you have just misused she 
always pronounced with a caress!" 

" Aye, I know rightly, but ye know I 
mane no harm, don't ye ? " 

" I know, but you remember when she 
used that word every letter in it was 
dressed in its best Sunday clothes, was n't 
it?" 

2IO 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



*' Och, aye, an' I 'd thravel twinty 
miles jist t' hear aany wan say it like 
Anna ! " 

" Well, I have traveled tens of thousands 
of miles and I have heard the greatest 
preachers of the age, but I never heard 
any one pronounce it so beautifully!" 

" But as I was a-sayin' bhoy, I haave n't 
had a rale good laugh since she died ; haave 
I, Mary?" 

'* I haave n't naither," Mary said. 

" Aye, but ye 've had double throuble, 
dear." 

" We never let trouble rob us of laughter 
when I was here." 

" Because whin ye wor here she was here 
too. In thim days whin throuble came 
she 'd tear it t' pieces an' make fun ov aych 
piece, begorra. Ye might glour an' glunch, 
but ye 'd haave t' laugh before th' finish 
— shure ye wud ! " 

The neighbors began to knock again. 
Some of the knocks were vocal and as plain 

211 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

as language. Some of the more familiar 
gaped in the window. 

" Hes he hed 'is bath yit ? " asked 
McGrath, the ragman. 

We opened the door and in marched the 
inhabitants of our vicinity for the second 
" crack.'^ 

This right of mine own people to come 
and go as they pleased suggested to me the 
thought that if I wanted to have a private 
conversation with my father I would have 
to take him to another town. 

The following day we went to the 
churchyard together — Jamie and I. Over 
her grave he had dragged a rough boulder 
and on it in a straggling, unsteady, amateur 
hand were painted her initials and below 
them his own. He was unable to speak 
there, and maybe it was just as well. I 
knew everything he wanted to say. It was 
written on his deeply furrowed face. I 
took his arm and led him away. 

Our next call was at Willie Withero's 

212 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



stone-pile. There, when I remembered 
the nights that I passed in my new world 
of starched linen, too good to shoulder a 
bundle of his old hammers, I was filled 
with remorse. I uncovered my head and 
in an undertone muttered, ** God forgive 
me. 

" Great oul bhoy was Willie," he said. 

" Aye." 

" Och, thim wor purty nice times whin 
he 'd come in o' nights an' him an' Anna 
wud argie; but they're gone, clane gone, 
an' I '11 soon be wi' thim." 

I bade farewell to Mary and took him 
to Belfast — for a private talk. Every 
day for a week we went out to the Cave 
hill — to a wild and lonely spot where I 
had a radius of a mile for the sound of my 
voice. The thing of all things that I 
wanted him to know was that in America 
I had been engaged in the same fight with 
poverty that they were familiar with at 
home. It was hard for him to think of a 
213 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

wolf of hunger at the door of any home 
beyond the sea. It was astounding to him 
to learn that around me always there were 
thousands of ragged, starving people. He 
just gaped and exclaimed : 

"It's quare, isn't it? " 

We sat on the grass on the hillside, 
conscious each of us that we were saying 
the things one wants to say on the edge of 
the grave. 

'' She speyed I 'd live t' see ye," he said. 

" She speyed well," I answered. 

" Th' night she died somethin' won- 
therful happened t' me. I was n't as deef 
as I am now, but I was purty deef. D' ye 
know, that night I cud hear th' aisiest 
whisper frum her lips — I cud that. She 
groped fur m' han ; ' Jamie,' says she, * it 's 
nearly over, dear.' 

'^ ' God love ye,' says I. 

" ' Aye,' says she, ' if He '11 jist love me 
as ye 've done it '11 be fine.' Knowin' what 
a rough maan I 'd been, I cud n't thole it. 
214 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



" ' Th' road 's been gey rocky an' we 've 
made many mistakes.' 

" ' Aye,' I said, ' we 've barged (scolded) 
a lot, Anna, but we did n't mane it.' 

" * No,' says she, * our crock ov love was 
niver dhrained.' 

" I brot a candle in an' stuck it in th' 
sconce so 's I cud see 'er face." 

" * We might haave done betther,' says 
she, ' but sich a wee house, so many 
childther an so little money.' 

" ' We war i' hard up,' says I. 

" ' We wor niver hard up in love, wor 
we?' 

" ' No, Anna,' says I, * but love diz n't 
boil th' kittle.' 

" ' Wud ye rather haave a boilin' kittle 
than love if ye had t' choose ? ' 

" ' Och, no, not at all, ye know rightly I 
wud n't.' 

" * Forby, Jamie, we 've given Antrim 
more 'n such men as Lord Massarene.' 

"* What's that?' says I. 
215 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

" * A maan that loves th' poorest craithers 
on earth an' serves thim/ 

" She had a gey good sleep afther that.'* 
" ' Jamie,' says she whin she awoke, ' was 
I ravin' ? ' 

" ' 'Deed no, Anna,' says L 
" * I 'm not ravin' now, am I ? ' 
" ' Acushla, why do ye ask sich a ques- 
tion ? ' 

" ' Tell 'im I did n't like " fisher ov men " 
as well as " th' plowman." It 's aisy t' 
catch thim fish, it 's hard t' plow up ig- 
norance an' superstition — tell 'im that 
fur me, Jamie ? ' 

^'^Aye, I'll tell 'im, dear.' 
'* ' Ye mind what I say'd t' ye on th' road 
t' Antrim, Jamie?' That "love is Enough"?' 
" ' Aye.' 

" * I tell ye again wi' my dyin' breath.' 
'' I leaned over an' kiss't 'er an' ; she 
smiled at me. Ah, bhoy, if ye could haave 
seen that luk on 'er face, it was like a pic- 
ture ov th' Virgin, it was that. 
216 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



" * Tell th' childther there 's only wan 
kind ov poverty, Jamie, an' that's t' haave 
no love in th' heart,' says she. 

" ' Aye, I '11 tell thim, Anna,' says I." 

He choked up. The next thought that 
•suggested itself for expression failed of 
utterance. The deep furrows on his face 
grew deeper. His lips trembled. When 
he could speak, he said: 

** My God, bhoy, we had to beg a coffin 
t' bury 'er in ! " 

" If I had died at the same time," I said, 
" they would have had to do the same for 
me!" 

" How quare ! " he said. 

I persuaded him to accompany me to 
one of the largest churches in Belfast. I 
was to preach there. That was more than 
he expected and the joy of it was over- 
powering. 

I do not remember the text, nor could I 
give at this distance of time an outline of 
the discourse: it was one of those occa- 
217 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

sions when a man stands on the borderland 
of another world. I felt distinctly the 
spiritual guidance of an unseen hand. I 
took her theme and spoke more for her ap- 
proval than for the approval of the crowd. 

He could not hear, but he listened with 
his eyes. On the street, after the service, 
he became oblivious of time and place and 
people. He threw his long lean arms 
around my neck and kissed me before a 
crowd. He hoped Anna was around 
listening. I told him she was and he said 
he would like to be ** happed up " beside 
her, as he had nothing further to hope for 
in life. 

In fear and trembling he crossed the 
Channel with me. In fear lest he should 
die in Scotland and they would not bury 
him in Antrim churchyard beside Anna. 
We visited my brothers and sisters for 
several days. Every day we took long 
walks along the country roads. These 
walks were full of questionings. Big 
218 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



vital questions of life and death and im- 
mortality. They were quaintly put: 

" There 's a lot of balderdash about 
another world, bhoy. On yer oath now, 
d' ye think there is wan ? " 

'' I do." 

*' If there is wud He keep me frum Anna 
jist because I've been kinda rough?" 

"I am sure He wouldn't!" 

" He wud n't be s' d — d niggardly, wud 
He?" 

** Never! God is love and love doesn't 
work that way ! " 

At the railway station he was still pour- 
ing in his questions. 

"D'ye believe in prayer?" 

" Aye." 

" Well, jist ax sometimes that Anna an' 
me be together, will ye?" 

" Aye." 

A little group of curious bystanders 
stood on the platform watching the little 
trembling old man clinging to me as the 
219 



MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER 

tendril of a vine clings to the trunk of a 
tree. 

"We have just one minute, Father!" 

" Aye, aye, wan minute — my God, why 
cud n't ye stay? " 

" There are so many voices calling me 
over the sea." 

"Aye, that's thrue." 

He saw them watching him and he feebly 
dragged me away from the crowd. He 
kissed me passionately, again and again, 
on the lips. The whistle blew. 

" All aboard ! " the guard shouted. He 
clutched me tightly and clung to me with 
the clutch of a drowning man. I had to 
extricate myself and spring on board. I 
caught a glimpse of him as the train moved 
out; despair and a picture of death was on 
his face. His lips were trembling and his 
eyes were full of tears. 

A few months later they lowered him 
to rest beside my mother. I want to go 
220 



THE EMPTY CORNER 



back some day and cover them with a slab 
of marble, on which their names will be 
cut, and these words: 

" Love is Enough." 



THE END 



221 



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